MASTERPIECES   OF 
MODERN    SPANISH    DRAMA 


MASTERPIECES  OF 
MODERN  SPANISH  DRAMA 

THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN 

DANIELA 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   SPANISH   AND   CATALAN 


EDITED,   WITH    A    PREFACE   BY 

BARRETT    H.    CLARK 


NEW   YORK 
DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright.  1917,  by 
DUFFIELO  &  Co. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE  by  BARRETT  H.  CLARK e  vii 

JOSE    ECHEGARAY 1 

Chronological  List  of  the  Plays  of  JOSE  ECHEGARAY    ...  2 

THE  GREAT  GALEOTO,  translated  by  ELEANOR  BONTECOU    .     .  5 

BENITO  PEREZ-GALo6s 91 

Chronological  List  of  the  Plays  of  BENITO  PEREZ-GALDOS   .     .  92 

THE  DUCHESS   OF  SAN  QUENTIN,  translated  by  PHILIP  M. 

HAYDEN 93 

ANGEL  GUIMER! 183 

Chronological  List  of  the  Plays  of  ANGEL  GuiMERA    .     .     .  185 

DANIELA,  translated  from  the  original  Catalan  by  JOHN  GAB- 

RETT  UNDERBILL 187 


PREFACE 

THE  drama  of  Spain,  early  and  modern,  has  in  English- 
speaking  countries  been  sadly  neglected.  It  is  a  regrettable 
fact  that  one  of  the  most  gorgeous  and  passionate  outbursts 
of  national  dramatic  genius  has  received  but  scant  attention 
from  English  readers.  Cervantes'  name  is  at  least  not  un- 
known to  the  great  mass  of  readers  in  every  language,  but 
to  the  majority  of  English  and  Americans,  Lope  de  Vega, 
Tirso  de  Molina,  and  Calderon — to  mention  only  the  greatest 
of  dozens  of  dramatists  of  the  time — are  a  closed  book.  About 
fifteen  Calderon  plays  are  available  in  some  form  in  English 
translation  or  adaptation,  only  two  or  three  of  Lope  and,  to 
my  knowledge,  not  one  of  Tirso.  Of  the  eighteenth  century 
lesser  lights  I  should  venture  to  say  that  there  is  in  English 
no  translation.  The  case  is  the  same  with  the  dramatists 
of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  if  we  except  one  or  two 
notable  translations  and  studies,  like  that  recently  issued  by 
the  Hispanic  Society  (a  translation  of  Un  nuevo  drama). 
And  yet  this  period  saw  a  rebirth  of  the  national  spirit  in 
the  drama  unequalled  in  any  other  country  save  France. 

The  modern  drama  in  Spain  is  somewhat  better  known, 
and  bids  fair  to  receive  even  better  treatment  than  it  has 
already  received.  Echegaray  is  represented  by  six  or  seven 
of  liis  most  typical  plays,  the  translations  of  wliich  range 
from  very  bad  to  excellent;  Galdos  by  three;  Guimera  by 
two;  Benavente  by  two — though  a  volume  of  five  has  been 
announced.1  There  remains,  however,  a  vast  field  as  yet 

translated  by  John  Garrett  Underbill  and  published  by  Charles  Scribner'g 
Sons, 


PREFACE 

untouched.  Surely  there  are  many  plays  of  the  dramatists 
already  mentioned  which  ought  to  be  translated,  while 
Dicenta,  Linares  Rivas,  Martinez  Sierra,  and  Rusinol, 
cannot  be  neglected. 

The  present  volume  will,  it  is  hoped,  encourage  the  pub- 
lication of  further  contemporary  Spanish  plays.  The  work 
is  as  yet  scarcely  begun.  Of  the  plays  here  presented  to 
English  readers,  two  have  never  before  been  translated,  and 
the  other — El  gran  galeoto — in  a  literal  and  rather  stiff  ver- 
sion, in  a  free  adaptation  and  modernization,  and  in  a  good 
translation  recently  published  but  little  known.  No  excuse 
is  therefore  needed  for  the  inclusion  of  this  masterpiece  in  a 
volume  whose  function  it  is  to  present  three  varied  aspects 
of  the  dramatic  genius  of  modern  Spain. 

The  three  dramatists  whose  work  is  here  represented 
exemplify  three  widely  different  branches  of  recent  Spanish 
drama.  Echegaray,  who  is  in  spirit  a  typical  Spaniard  in  his 
fondness  for  melodramatic  and,  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind,  ex- 
aggerated situations,  is  by  far  the  most  European,  I  had  al- 
most said,  eclectic,  of  the  group.  His  wide  education  and 
many-sided  interests  and  activities,  his  acquaintance  with 
foreign  languages  and  literatures,  have  resulted  at  times  in 
an  unhappy  fusion  of  many  manners.  As  has  been  pointed 
out  by  Miss  Elizabeth  Wallace  in  her  article  on  Modern 
Spanish  Drama,  the  main  currents  of  contemporary  drama 
have  for  the  most  part  failed  to  interest  the  Spaniards. 
She  says:  "The  northern  realistic  drama  has  also  been  doomed 
to  unsuccess  in  Spain.  Aside  from  the  enigmatical  character 
of  some  episodes  and  the  puerility  of  some  of  the  allegories, 
the  dramas  of  Ibsen  have  interested  the  reading  classes  be- 
cause of  the  vitality,  not  so  much  passional  as  intellectual, 
of  their  subjects.  But  the  harsh  individualism,  the  intimate 
and  subtle  sentiments  of  self-centered  men  cannot  be  under- 
stood by  the  Spanish  public.  Such  types  as  are  found  in. 


PREFACE 

Ibsen,  Bjornson,  and  Sudermann  are  unknown  in  Spain." 
Attempts  were  made — Echegaray's  own  El  Hijo  de  Don  Juan 
is  a  case  in  question — to  treat  subjects  that  were  basically 
foreign  to  the  Spanish  temperament,  but  these  seem  to  lack 
the  spontaneity  of  the  true  indigenous  play.  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that  Spain  is  the  only  country  whose  drama  is  funda- 
mentally at  its  best  when  it  follows  the  best  traditions  of 
its  Golden  Age.  This  does  not  mean  that  Galdos  writes 
like  Lope  de  Vega.  Galdos  has  ideas  of  his  own  on  the  sub- 
ject of  technic,  but  it  is  incontestable  that  El  Abuelo  is  part 
and  parcel  of  the  spirit  that  produced  La  Esirclla  de  Sevilla, 
and  that  Terra  Baixa  (Maria  of  the  Lowlands)  thrills  with  the 
passion  of  Calderon.  Giacosa  in  Italy,  Hauptmann  in  Ger- 
many, Becque  in  France,  were  each  of  them  able  to  adopt  the 
new  manner  and  produce  works  of  significance  and  value; 
Echegaray  and  Galdos  at  best  could  only  assimilate  a  few 
technical  points.  It  is  their  glory  that  they  remained  truly 
Spanish. 

Galdos  won  international  fame  with  his  novels,  but  not 
until  the  nineties  did  he  return  to  the  drama,  from  the 
pursuit  of  which  an  early  failure  had  discouraged  him.  It 
would  be  matter  for  surprise  if  an  author,  after  writing 
novels  for  twenty  years,  should  turn  to  the  drama,  and  find 
himself  endowed  with  a  dramatic  technic  ready  to  hand. 
Galdos'  technic  is  not  the  technic  of  Echegaray,  nor  of  Scribe, 
nor  of  Ibsen;  it  is  rather  a  technic  derived  from  the  earlier 
Spanish  drama,  and  partly  evolved  out  of  the  author's  own 
novelistic  methods.  He  says:  "There  are  some  who  aver 
that  there  is  a  natural  antagonism  between  the  means  and 
ends  of  these  two  forms  [the  novel  and  the  drama];  they 
start,  however,  at  the  same  source,  and  are  two  fraternal 
rivers,  each  intermingling  with  the  other."  Electra,  and  more 
especially  Realidad,  are  novelistic;  El  Abuelo  combines 
many  of  the  excellences  of  the  novel,  but  not  one  of  these 


PREFACE 

plays  is  primarily  important  for  its  inherent  dramatic  or 
theatrical  qualities.  It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  El 
Abuelo,  strong  and  beautiful  as  it  is,  would  not  have  been 
stronger  and  still  more  beautiful  'had  it  been  written  as  a 
novel.  The  canvas  is  too  large,  the  ideas  too  general.  The 
play-form  requires  a  rigid  adherence  to  a  set  of  tested  rules, 
and  while  these  rules  may  be,  and  are  questioned,  and  once 
in  a  while  found  wanting  and  changed,  it  seems  rather  a 
pity  that  men  with  great  ideas  should  sacrifice  themselves 
to  the  work  of  pure  technical  innovation. 

Guimerd  is  the  central  figure  in  the  rebirth  of  Catalan 
nationalism  in  literature,  art,  and  politics.  His  native 
language  is  the  Catalan,  which,  according  to  John  Garrett 
Underbill,  is  "one  of  the  Romance  family  to  wlu'ch  the 
neighboring  French  and  Spanish  also  belong.  Like  them  it 
derives  from  the  Latin,  but  its  closest  affinity  is  with  the 
Provencal.  The  medieval  troubadours  overran  Catalonia 
and  Valencia  quite  as  they  did  their  own  Provence,  and 
Catalan  attained  its  greatest  development  shortly  after- 
ward." All  his  plays  are  written  in  Catalan  and  acted  at 
the  Teatre  Catala.  Guimcra,  in  his  best  plays  is  a  dramatist 
of  the  front  rank;  he  has  studied,  imitated  the  technic  of 
others,  but  has  finally  adopted  one  of  his  own,  which  is 
economical,  tense,  and  compelling. 

And  yet,  despite  their  differences,  Echegaray,  Galdos, 
and  Guimerd  are  essentially  Spanish.  The  first  exemplifies 
nationalism  and  internationalism,  nationalism  in  subject- 
matter,  and  internationalism  in  the  manner  of  its  presenta- 
tion; the  second,  the  tendency  to  depict  soberly,  skilfully, 
deeply,  the  life  of  the  Spaniard  of  today;  the  third,  national- 
ism of  a  particular  section.  As  may  be  seen  after  a  cursory 
reading  of  the  three  plays  contained  in  this  little  collection, 
the  Spanish  drama  of  today  cannot  easily  be  summed  up  in 
a  few  words;  the  attempt  here  made  is  largely  with  a  view 


PREFACE 

to  showing  something  of  the  genius  of  a  nation  whose  dra- 
matic products  have  as  yet  scarcely  begun  to  receive  the 
attention  they  so  well  deserve. 

BAKBETT  H.  CLARK. 


NOTE 

Thanks  to  the  courtesy  and  interest  of  Mr.  John  Garrett 
Underbill,  I  am  able  to  furnish  information  regarding  the 
life  of  Guimerd  and  publish  authoritative  references  and  lists 
of  plays  of  all  the  dramatists  represented  in  this  volume, 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  either  very  difficult  or 
else  impossible  to  obtain. 


ECHEGARAY 


JOSE  ECHEGARAY  was  born  at  Madrid  in  1832.  Always 
an  apt  pupil,  at  an  early  age  he  showed  marked  propensities 
for  mathematics  and  the  exact  sciences,  but  although  he 
has  never  lost  his  interest  in  these  pursuits,  he  became  inter- 
ested in  literature  and  the  theater,  and  in  later  years  made  an 
extensive  study  of  the  drama  of  modern  Europe.  He  was 
graduated  in  1853  from  the  Escuela  de  Caminos,  with  high 
honors,  and  became  a  tutor  in  mathematics.  Not  long  after- 
ward, he  was  appointed  to  a  professorship  in  that  subject  in 
the  same  school  from  which  he  graduated.  From  that  time 
on,  his  interests  widened;  he  studied  political  economy,  phi- 
losophy, geology,  and  politics.  He  was  likewise  engaged  in 
engineering  and  chemical  work,  and  became  a  recognized 
authority.  At  the  age  of  thirty-two  he  wrote  a  play,  but  laid 
it  aside,  deeming  it  unworthy;  but  his  interest  in  the  theater 
was  rapidly  increasing.  He  was  appointed  Minister  for  the 
Colonies  under  the  government  following  the  Revolution  of 
18C8,  and  his  political  duties  prevented  further  development 
of  his  dramatic  talent.  Five  years  later  he  was  proscribed, 
forced  to  leave  the  country  and  go  to  France,  where  he  wrote 
his  first  play  to  be  produced,  "El  Libro  Talonario."  On 
his  return  to  Spain  in  1874,  it  was  presented,  but  did  not 
attract  widespread  attention.  His  first  success  was  "En 
el  Pufio  de  la  Espada"  (1875),  which  was  followed  by  a 
long  series  of  tragedies,  comedies,  and  thesis  plays. 

Echegaray  died  hi  the  summer  of  1916. 


CHRONOLOGICAL   LIST   OP  THE 
PLAYS   OF  JOSE    ECHEGARAY 

El  libro  talonario  (1  act) 1874 

La  esposa  del  vengador 1874 

La  ultima  noche 1875 

En  el  pufio  de  la  espada 1875 

Un  sol  que  nace  y  un  sol  que  muere  (1  act)    ....  1875 

C6mo  empieza  y  c6mo  acaba  (part  I  of  a  Trilogy).     .  1876 

O  locura  6  santidad 1877 

Para  tal  culpa  tal  pena 1877 

Lo  que  no  puede  decirse  (part  II  of  the  Trilogy)     .     .  1877 

En  el  pilar  y  en  la  cruz 1878 

Correr  en  pos  de  un  ideal 1878 

Algunas  veces  aqut 1878 

Morir  por  no  despertar  (1  act) 1879 

En  el  seno  de  la  muerte 1879 

Mar  sin  orillas 1879 

La  Muerte  en  los  labios 1880 

El  gran  Galeoto 1881 

Haroldo  el  Normando 1881 

Los  dos  curiosos  impertinentes  (part  III  of  the  Trilogy)  1882 

Conflicto  entre  dos  deberes 1882 

Un  milagro  en  Egipto 1883 

Piensa  mal  .  .  .  y  acertaras? 1884 

La  Peste  de  Otranto 1884 

Vida  alegre  y  muerte  triste 1885 

El  bandido  Lisandro 1886 

De  mala  raza 1886 

El  conde  Lotario  (1  act) 1887 

Dos  fanatismos 1887 

La  realidad  y  el  delirio 1887 


CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST  3 

El  hijo  de  hierro  y  el  hijo  de  carne 1888 

Lo  sublime  en  lo  vulgar 1888 

Manantial  que  no  se  agota 1889 

Los  rigidos 1889 

Siempre  en  ridiculo 1890 

El  prologo  de  un  drama  (1  act) 1890 

Irene  de  Otranto 1891 

Un  critico  Incipiente 1891 

Comedia  sin  desenlace 1891 

El  hijo  de  Don  Juan 1892 

Sic  vos  non  vobis,  6  La  ultima  Limosna 1892 

Mariana 1892 

El  poder  de  la  impotencia 1893 

A  la  orilla  del  mar 1893 

La  rencorosa 1894 

Mancha  que  limpia 1895 

El  primer  acto  de  un  drama  (1  act) 1895 

El  Estigma 1895 

Amor  salvage 1896 

La  calumnia  por  castigo      „ 1897 

Laduda 1898 

El  hombre  negro 1898 

Silencio  de  muerte 1898 

El  loco  Dios 1900 

Malas  herencias 1902 

La  escalinata  de  un  trono 1903 

La  desequilibrada 1903 

A  fuerza  de  arrastrarse 1905 

El  preferido  y  los  cenicientos 1908 

0  locura  6  santidad  is  translated  as  Folly  or  Saintliness  by 

Hannah  Lynch  (John  Lane  Co.)>  London,  1895,  and  as  Mad- 
man or  Saint,  by  Ruth  Lansing  (Poet  Lore,  1912);   El  gran 

Galeoto  as  The  Great  Galeoto,  by  Hannah  Lynch  (John  Lane 


4  CHRONOLOGICAL   LIST 

Co.,  1895),  and  later  reprinted  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 
in  the  Drama  League  Series  of  Plays);  also  as  The  Great 
Galeoto,  translated  by  Jacob  S.  Fassett  (Badger,  Boston, 
1914);  El  Hijo  de  Don  Juan  as  The  Son  of  Don  Juan  by 
James  Graham  (Roberts  Bros.,  Boston,  1895);  Mariana  by 
the  same,  and  by  Fredico  Sarda  and  Carlos  D.  S.  Wupper- 
mann  (Moods,  New  York,  1909),  El  hombre  negro  as  The 
Man  in  Black  by  Ellen  Watson  (Universal  Anthology) ;  and 
El  loco  Dios  as  The  Madman  Divine,  by  Elizabeth  Howard 
West  (Poet  Lore,  1908);  Siempre  en  Ridiculo  as  Always 
Ridiculous,  by  T.  Walter  Gilkyson  (Poet  Lore,  1916). 

References:  The  introductions  to  the  Lynch  and  Graham 
translations  above  referred  to;  Bernard  Shaw,  Dramatic 
Opinions  and  Essays  (Brentano);  C.  F.  Nirdlinger,  Masks 
and  Mummers  (De  Witt,  New  York);  Manuel  Bueno, 
Teatro  Espanol  contempordneo  (Madrid,  1909);  Luis  Anton 
del  Olmet  y  Arturo  Garcfa  Carraffa,  Ecfiegaray  (Madrid, 
1912);  Barrett  H.  Clark,  The  Continental  Drama  of  Today 
(Henry  Holt  &  Co.) ;  Atlantic  Monthly,  vol.  cii,  p.  357;  Poet 
Lore,  vol.  xii,  p.  405;  Contemporary  Review,  vol.  Ixiv,  p.  576; 
Review  of  Reviews,  vol.  xxxi,  p.  613. 


THE  GREAT  GALEOTO 

(El  Gran  Galeoto) 

A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS  AND  A  PROLOGUE 
BY  JOSfi  ECHEGAEAY 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   SPANISH   BY 
ELEANOR  BONTECOU 


Produced,  for  the  first  time,  in  Madrid,  at  the  Teatro  Espafiol,  March  19, 18*" 


CHARACTERS 

TEODORA 

DON  JULIAN,  her  husband 

DONA  MERCEDES 

DON  SEVERO,  her  husband 

PEPITO,  her  son 

ERNESTO 

A  BYSTANDER 

A  SERVANT 

ANOTHER  SERVANT 


THE   GREAT   GALEOTO 


PROLOGUE 

ERNESTO'S  study.  To  the  left,  a  French  window;  to  the  right, 
a  door. — Nearly  in  the  center,  a  table  on  which  are  books, 
papers,  and  a  lighted  lamp. — To  the  rigid  is  a  sofa.  It 
is  evening.  ERNESTO  is  seated  at  the  table,  as  though  about 
to  write. 

ERN.  There's  no  use.  I  can't  do  it.  It  is  impossible.  I 
am  simply  contending  with  the  impossible.  The  idea  is  here; 
it  is  stirring  in  my  brain;  I  can  feel  it.  Sometimes  a  light 
from  within  illumines  it  and  I  see  it  with  its  shifting  form  and 
vague  contours,  and  suddenly  there  sound  in  the  hidden 
depths  voices  that  give  it  life;  cries  of  grief,  sighs  of  love, 
sardonic,  mocking  laughter — a  whole  world  of  living,  strug- 
gling passions.  They  break  from  me,  and  spread  out,  and  fill 
the  air  all  about  me!  Then,  then,  I  say  to  myself,  the  mo- 
ment has  come,  and  I  take  up  my  pen,  and  with  eyes  gazing 
into  space,  with  straining  ears,  with  fast-beating  heart,  I  bend 
over  my  paper. — But  oh,  the  irony  of  impotence!  The  con- 
tours become  blurred,  the  vision  disappears,  the  shouts  and 
sighs  die  away,  and  nothingness,  nothingness  surrounds  me! 
The  desolation  of  empty  space,  of  meaningless  thought,  of 
deadly  weariness!  More  than  all  that,  the  desolation  of  an 
idle  pen  and  a  barren  page — a  page  bereft  of  all  life-giving 
thought.  Ah,  how  many  forms  has  nothingness,  and  how  it 
mocks,  dark  and  silent,  at  creatures  of  my  sort!  Many,  many 

7 


8  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO 

forms: — the  colorless  canvas,  the  shapeless  piece  of  marble, 
the  discordant  sound,  but  none  more  irritating,  more  mock- 
ing, more  blighting  than  this  worthless  pen  and  this  blank 
paper.  Ah,  I  cannot  cover  you,  but  I  can  destroy  you,  vile 
accomplice  in  my  wrecked  ambitions  and  my  everlasting 
humiliation! — So,  so, — smaller,  still  smaller.  [Tearing  the 
paper — then,  a  pause]  Well,  it's  fortunate  that  no  one  saw 
me,  for  at  best  such  ranting  is  foolish,  and  it's  all  wrong. 
No — I  will  not  give  in;  I  will  think  harder,  harder,  until  I 
conquer  or  blow  up  in  a  thousand  pieces.  No,  I  will  never 
admit  I  am  beaten.  Come,  let's  see  whether  now — 

Enter  DON  JULIAN,  right,  wearing  a  {rock  coat  and 
carrying  his  overcoat  on  his  arm.  He  looks  in  at  the 
door  bid  doesn't  come  in. 

JUL.  Hello,  Ernesto! 

ERN.  Don  Julian! 

JUL.  Still  working?    Am  I  disturbing  you? 

ERN.  Disturbing  me?  Indeed,  no.  Come  in,  come  in, 
Don  Julian.  Where's  Teodora? 

JUL.  We've  just  come  from  the  opera.  She  went  up  to  the 
third  floor  with  my  brother  and  his  wife  to  see  some  pur- 
chases of  Mercedes,  and  I  was  on  my  way  to  my  own 
room,  when  I  saw  a  light  in  yours  and  looked  in  to  say 
good-night. 

ERN.  Were  there  many  people  there? 

JUL.  A  good  many — as  usual.  All  my  friends  were  asking 
for  you.  They  were  surprised  at  your  not  going. 

ERN.  How  kind  of  them! 

JUL.  Not  so  very,  considering  all  that  you  deserve.  But 
how  about  you?  Have  you  made  good  use  of  these  three 
hours  of  solitude  and  inspiration? 

ERN.  Solitude,  yes;  inspiration,  no.  That  would  not  come 
to  me,  though  I  called  upon  it  desperately  and  with  passion. 

JUL.  It  wouldn't  obey  the  summons? 


THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  9 

ERST.  No,  and  this  was  not  the  first  time.  But  I  did  make 
a  profitable  discovery,  though  I  accomplished  nothing. 

JUL.  What? 

ERN.  Simply  this — that  I  am  a  poor  good-for-nothing. 

JUL.  Good-for-nothing!  Well,  that's  a  profitable  discov- 
ery, indeed. 

ERN.  Precisely. 

JUL.  And  why  so  disgusted  with  yourself?  Isn't  the  play 
you  told  about  the  other  day  going  well?  . 

ERN.  I'm  the  one  who  is  going — out  of  my  mind! 

JUL.  And  what  is  all  this  trouble  that  inspiration  and  the 
play  together  are  making  for  my  Ernesto? 

ERN.  The  trouble  is  this;  when  I  conceived  it  I  thought 
the  idea  a  good  one;  but  when  I  give  it  form  and  dress  it 
out  in  the  proper  stage  trappings  the  result  is  extraordinary; 
contrary  to  all  laws  of  the  drama;  utterly  impossible. 

JUL.  But  why  impossible?  Come,  tell  me  about  it.  I  am 
curious. 

ERN.  Imagine,  then,  that  the  principal  character,  the  one 
who  creates  the  drama,  who  develops,  who  animates  it, 
who  brings  about  the  catastrophe,  and  who  thrives  upon  that 
catastrophe  and  revels  in  it — that  person  cannot  appear  on 
the  stage. 

JUL.  Is  he  so  ugly?    Or  so  repulsive?    Or  so  wicked? 

ERN.  It's  not  that.  He  is  no  uglier  than  any  one  else — 
than  you  or  I.  Nor  is  he  bad.  Neither  bad  nor  good. 
Repulsive?  No  indeed.  I  am  not  such  a  sceptic,  nor  such 
a  misanthrope,  nor  so  at  odds  with  the  world  that  I  would 
say  such  a  thing  or  commit  such  an  injustice. 

JUL.  Well,  then,  what  is  the  reason? 

ERN.  Don  Julian,  the  reason  is  that  there  probably  wouldn't 
be  room  on  the  stage  for  the  character  in  question. 

JUL.  Good  heavens,  listen  to  the  man!  Is  this  a  mytho- 
logical play,  then,  and  do  Titans  appear  on  the  stage?  • 


10  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO 

ERN.  They  are  Titans;  but  a  modern  variety. 

JUL.  In  short? 

ERN.  In  short  this  character  is — Everybody. 

JUL.  Everybody!  Well,  you  are  right!  There's  not  room 
in  the  theater  for  everybody.  That  is  an  indisputable  fact 
that  has  often  been  demonstrated. 

ERN.  Now  you  see  how  right  I  was. 

JUL.  Not  altogether.  Everybody  can  be  condensed  into 
a  certain  number  of  types,  or  characters.  I  don't  understand 
these  things  myself,  but  I  have  heard  that  authors  have  done 
it  more  than  once. 

ERN.  Yes,  but  in  my  case,  that  is,  in  my  play,  it  can't  be 
done. 

JUL.  Why  not? 

ERN.  For  many  reasons  that  it  would  take  too  long  to 
explain;  especially  at  this  time  of  night. 

JUL.  Never  mind,  let's  have  some  of  them. 

ERN.  Well  then,  each  part  of  this  vast  whole,  each  head 
of  this  thousand-headed  monster,  of  this  Titan  of  today 
whom  I  call  Everybody,  takes  part  in  my  play  only  for  the 
briefest  instant,  speaks  one  word  and  no  more,  gives  one 
glance;  perhaps  his  entire  action  consists  in  the  suggestion 
of  one  smile;  he  appears  for  a  moment  and  goes  away 
again;  he  works  without  passion,  without  guile,  without 
malice,  indifferently,  and  absently — often  by  his  very  ab- 
straction. 

JUL.  And  what  then? 

ERN.  From  those  words,  from  those  fleeting  glances,  from 
those  indifferent  smiles,  from  all  those  little  whispers,  from 
all  those  peccadilloes;  from  all  these  things  that  we  might  call 
insignificant  rays  of  dramatic  light,  when  brought  to  a  focus 
in  one  family,  result  the  spark  and  the  explosion,  the  struggle 
and  the  victims.  If  I  represent  the  whole  of  mankind  by  a 
given  number  of  types  or  symbolic  characters,  I  have  to 


THE     GREAT    GALEOTO  11 

ascribe  to  each  one  that  which  is  really  distributed  among 
many,  with  the  result  that  a  certain  number  of  characters 
must  appear  who  are  made  repulsive  by  vices  that  lack 
verisimilitude,  whose  crimes  have  no  object.  And,  as  an 
additional  result,  there  is  the  danger  that  people  will  believe 
I  am  trying  to  paint  society  as  evil,  corrupt,  and  cruel,  when 
I  only  want  to  show  that  not  even  the  most  insignificant  acts 
are  really  insignificant  or  impotent  for  good  or  evil;  for, 
gathered  together  by  the  mysterious  agencies  of  modern 
life,  they  may  succeed  in  producing  tremendous  results. 

JUL.  Come,  stop,  stop!  That  is  all  dreadfully  meta- 
physical. I  get  a  glimmering,  but  the  clouds  are  pretty 
thick.  In  fact,  you  understand  more  than  I  do  about 
these  things.  Now,  if  it  were  a  question  of  drafts,  of 
notes,  of  letters  of  credit,  of  discount,  it  would  be  another 
matter. 

ERN.  Oh,  no,  you  have  common-sense,  which  is  the  main 
thing. 

JUL.  Thanks,  Ernesto,  you  are  very  kind. 

ERN.  But  are  you  convinced? 

JUL.  -No,  I'm  not.  There  must  be  some  way  of  getting 
round  the  difficulty. 

ERN.  If  only  there  were! 

JUL.  Is  there  something  more? 

ERN.  I  should  say  so!  Tell  me,  what  is  the  moving  force 
of  the  drama? 

JUL.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  mean  by  the  moving 
force  of  the  drama,  but  I  will  say  that  I  don't  find  any 
pleasure  in  plays  in  which  there  are  no  love-affairs;  prefer- 
ably unhappy  love-affairs,'  for  I  have  plenty  of  happy  love- 
making  in  my  own  house  with  my  Teodora. 

ERN.  Good.  Splendid!  Well,  in  my  play  there  is  hardly 
any  love-making  at  all. 

JUL.  Bad,  very  bad  indeed,  I  say.    Listen,  I  don't  know 


12  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO 

what  your  play  is  about,  but  I  am  afraid  that  it  won't  interest 
anybody. 

ERN.  That's  just  what  I  told  you.  Still,  love-making 
might  be  put  in,  and  even  a  little  jealousy. 

JUL.  Well,  with  that,  with  an  interesting  and  well- 
developed  intrigue,  with  some  really  striking  situation.  .  .  . 

EBN.  No,  senor,  certainly  not  that.  Everything  must  be 
quite  commonplace,  almost  vulgar.  This  drama  can  have  no 
outward  manifestation.  It  goes  on  in  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  the  characters;  it  progresses  slowly;  today  it  is  a  ques- 
tion of  a  thought;  tomorrow  of  a  heartbeat;  gradually  the 
will  is  undermined.  .  .  . 

JUL.  But  how  is  all  this  shown?  How  are  these  inner 
struggles  expressed?  Who  tells  the  audience  about  them? 
Where  are  they  seen?  Are  we  to  spend  the  whole  evening  in 
pursuit  of  a  glance,  a  sigh,  a  gesture,  a  word?  My  dear  boy, 
that  is  no  sort  of  amusement.  When  a  man  wants  to  meddle 
with  such  abstractions  he  studies  philosophy. 

EBN.  That's  it,  exactly.  You  repeat  my  thoughts  like  an 
echo. 

JUL.  I  don't  want  to  discourage  you,  however.  You 
probably  know  what  you  are  doing.  And,  even  though  the 
play  may  be  a  little  colorless,  even  though  it  may  seem  a  bit 
heavy  and  uninteresting,  so  long  as  it  lias  a  fine  climax  ami 
the  catastrophe.  ...  eh? 

ERN.  Catastrophe — climax!  They  have  hardly  come  when 
the  curtain  falls. 

JUL.  You  mean  that  the  play  begins  when  the  play  ends? 

ERN.  I'm  afraid  so — though,  of  course,  I  shall  try  to  put  a 
little  warmth  into  it. 

JUL.  Come  now,  what  you  ought  to  do  is  write  the  second 
play,  the  one  that  begins  when  the  first  ends;  for  the  first, 
judging  by  what  you  say,  isn't  worth  the  trouble — and  plenty 
of  trouble  it's  bound  to  give  you. 


THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  13 

ERN.  I  was  convinced  of  that. 

JUL.  And  now  we  both  are — thanks  to  your  cleverness  and 
the  force  of  your  logic.  What  is  the  title? 

ERN.  Title!    Why,  that's  another  thing.    It  has  no  title. 

JUL.    What!    What  did  you  say?    No  title,  either? 

ERN.  No,  senor. 

JUL.  Well,  Ernesto,  you  must  have  been  asleep  when  I 
came  in — you  were  having  a  nightmare  and  now  you  are 
telling  me  your  dreams. 

ERN.  Dreaming?  Yes.  A  nightmare?  Perhaps.  And 
I  am  telling  you  my  dreams,  good  and  bad.  You  have 
common  -  sense,  and  you  always  guess  right  in  every- 
thing. 

JUL.  It  didn't  take  much  penetration  to  guess  right  in 
this  case.  A  play  in  which  the  principal  character  doesn't 
appear,  in  which  there  is  almost  no  love-making,  in  which 
nothing  happens  that  doesn't  happen  every  day,  which  begins 
as  the  curtain  falls  on  the  last  act,  and  which  has  no  title. — 
Well,  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  written,  how  it  can  be  acted, 
or  how  any  one  can  be  found  to  listen  to  it, — or,  indeed,  how 
it  is  a  play  at  all. 

ERN.  Ah,  but  it  is  a  play.  The  only  trouble  is  that  I 
must  give  it  form,  and  that  I  don't  know  how  to  do. 

JUL.  Do  you  want  my  advice? 

ERN.  Your  advice?  The  advice  of  my  friend,  my  bene- 
factor, my  second  father!  Oh,  Don  Julian! 

JUL.  Come,  come,  Ernesto,  let  us  not  have  a  little  senti- 
mental play  of  our  own  here  in  place  of  yours  which  we  have 
pronounced  impossible.  I  only  asked  you  whether  you  wanted 
to  know  my  advice. 

ERN.  And  I  said,  Yes. 

JUL.  Well,  forget  all  about  plays — go  to  bed — go  to  sleep 
— go  shooting  with  me  tomorrow,  kill  any  number  of  par- 
tridges instead  of  killing  two  characters,  and  perhaps  hav- 


14  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO 

ing  the  audience  kill  you — and  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
you'll  be  thankful  to  me. 

ERN.  That  can't  be:  I  must  write  the  play. 

JUL.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  have  thought  of  it 
by  way  of  penance  for  your  sins. 

ERN.  I  don't  know  why  it  happened,  but  think  of  it  I  did. 
I  feel  it  stirring  in  my  mind,  it  begs  for  life  La  the  outer  world, 
and  I  am  bound  to  give  it  that. 

JUL.  Can't  you  find  some  other  plot? 

ERN.  But  what  about  this  idea? 

JUL.  Let  the  devil  take  care  of  it. 

ERN.  Ah,  Don  Julian,  do  you  think  that  when  an  idea 
has  been  hammered  out  in  our  minds,  we  can  destroy  it  and 
bring  it.  to  naught  whenever  we  choose?  I  should  like  to 
think  of  another  play,  but  this  accursed  one  won't  let  me 
until  it  has  been  born  into  the  world. 

JUL.  There's  no  use  talking,  then.  I  only  hope  you  get 
some  light  on  the  subject. 

ERN.  That  is  the  question,  as  Hamlet  says. 

JUL.  [In  a  low  voice,  vrith  mock  mystery]  Couldn't  you  put 
it  in  the  literary  orphanage  for  anonymous  works? 

ERN.  Don  Julian,  I  am  a  man  of  conscience.  My  children, 
good  or  bad,  are  legitimate,  and  shall  bear  my  name. 

JUL.  I'll  say  no  more.    It  must  be — it  is  written. 

ERN.  I  only  wish  it  were.  Unfortunately  it  is  not  written ; 
but  no  matter,  if  I  don't  write  it,  someone  else  will. 

JUL.  Well,  to  work!  Good  luck,  and  don't  let  any  one  get 
ahead  of  you. 

TEO.  [Without]  Julian!  Julian! 

JUL.  There's  Teodora! 

TEO.  Are  you  here,  Julian? 

JUL.  Yes,  here  I  am.    Come  in! 
Enter  TEODORA. 

TEO.  Good-evening,  Ernesto. 


THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  15 

ERN.  Good-evening,  Teodora.    Did  they  sing  well? 

TEO.  As  usual.    Have  you  done  a  lot  of  work? 

ERN.  As  usual;  nothing. 

TEO.  Why,  you  might  better  have  gone  with  us.  All  my 
friends  were  asking  for  you. 

ERN.  It  seems  that  everybody  is  taking  an  interest  in  me. 

JUL.  I  should  say  so;  since  you  are  going  to  make  Every- 
body the  principal  character  in  your  play,  naturally  it  is  to 
his  interest  to  have  you  for  his  friend. 

TEO.  A  play? 

JtJiu  Hush,  it's  a  great  mystery;  you  mustn't  ask  any- 
thing about  it.  It  has  no  title,  no  actors,  no  action,  no 
catastrophe!  Oh,  how  sublime!  Good-night,  Ernesto. — 
Come,  Teodora. 

ERN.  Good-bye,  Julian. 

TEO.  Until  tomorrow. 

ERN.  Good-night. 

TEO.  [To  JULIAN]  How  preoccupied  Mercedes  seemed! 

JUL.  And  Severo  .v^as  in  a  rage. 

TEO.  I  wonder  why. 

JUL.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Pepito,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  lively  enough  for  both. 

TEO.  He  always  is, — and  speaking  ill  of  every  one. 

JUL.  A  character  for  Ernesto's  play. 

TEODORA  and  JULIAN  go  out,  right. 

ERN.  Let  Julian  say  what  he  likes,  I  am  not  going  to  give 
up  my  undertaking.  It  would  be  rank  cowardice.  No, 
I  will  not  retreat.  Forward!  [He  rises  and  walks  up  and 
down  in  agitation.  Then  he  goes  over  to  the  French  window] 
Night,  lend  me  your  protection,  for  against  your  blackness 
the  luminous  outlines  of  my  inspiration  are  defined  more 
clearly  than  against  the  blue  cloak  of  day.  Lift  up  your 
roofs,  ye  thousands  of  houses  in  this  mighty  city;  for  surely 
you  should  do  as  much  for  a  poet  in  distress  as  for  that 


16  THE    GREAT   GALEOTO 

crooked  devil  who  mischievously  lifted  your  tops  off.  Let 
me  see  the  men  and  women  coming  back  to  your  rooms  to 
rest  after  the  busy  hours  of  pleasure-seeking.  As  my  ears 
become  more  sensitive,  let  them  distinguish  the  many  words 
of  those  who  were  asking  Julian  and  Teodora  about  me; 
and  as  a  great  light  is  made  from  scattered  rays  when  they 
are  gathered  into  a  crystal  lens,  as  the  mountains  are  formed 
from  grains  of  sand  and  the  sea  from  drops  of  water,  so  from 
your  chance  words,  your  stray  smiles,  your  idle  glances,  from 
a  thousand  trivial  thoughts  which  you  have  left  scattered 
in  cafes,  in  theaters,  in  ball-rooms,  and  which  are  now  float- 
ing in  the  air,  I  shall  shape  my  drama,  and  the  crystal  of  my 
mind  shall  be  the  lens  that  brings  to  a  focus  the  lights  and 
shadows,  so  that  from  them  shall  result  the  dramatic  spark 
and  the  tragic  explosion.  My  drama  is  taking  shape.  Now 
it  has  a  title,  for  there  in  the  lamplight  I  see  the  work  of 
the  immortal  Florentine  poet,  and  in  Italian  it  has  given  me 
the  name  which  it  would  be  madness  or  folly  to  write  or 
speak  in  plain  Spanish.  Paolo  and  Francesca,  may  your  love 
help  me!  [Sitting  down  at  the  table  and  beginning  to  write]  The 
play!  the  play  begins!  The  first  page  is  no  longer  blank 
[uniting].  Now  it  has  a  title.  [Writes  madly]  The  Great 
Galeoto! 

Curtain. 


ACT    I 

A  room  in  DON  JULIAN'S  house.  At  the  back  a  large  door. 
Beyond  it,  a  little  passage,  at  the  very  end  of  which  is  the 
dining-room  door.  'This  door  is  closed  until  the  end  of  the 
act.  To  the  left  of  the  audience,  towards  the  front,  a 
French  ivindow.  To  the  right,  two  doors.  In  front,  at  the 
right,  a  sofa.  To  the  left  a  small  table  and  an  arm-chair. 
Everything  is  expensive  and  luxurious.  It  is  late  after- 
noon. TEODORA  is  looking  out  of  the  French  window. 
JULIAN  sits  on  the  sofa,  lost  in  thought. 

TEO.  What  a  beautiful  sunset!  Such  glorious  colors,  such 
clouds!  If  the  futi"-~  is  printed  on  those  azure  pages,  as  poets 
say  and  our  fathers  believed;  if  the  mysterious  secret  of 
human  destiny  is  written  on  the  sapphire  sphere  in  stars  of 
fire,  and  if  this  glorious  sky  is  the  page  that  tells  of  our  fate, 
what  joys  await  us,  how  the  future  smiles  upon  us!  But 
what  are  you  thinking  of?  Come,  Julian,  look  out  here. 
Why  don't  you  say  something? 

JUL.  [Absent-mindedly]  What  is  it? 

TEO.  [Going  to  him]  Weren't  you  listening  to  me? 

JUL.  My  heart  is  always  with  you,  for  you  are  its  goal  and 
its  loadstone;  but  sometimes  my  mind  is  distracted  by  im- 
portunate cares,  by  business  affairs — 

TEO.  Which  I  detest,  since  they  rob  me  of  my  husband's 
attention,  if  not  of  his  affection.  But  what  is  it,  Julian? 
Something  is  worrying  you,  and  it  must  be  serious,  because 
you  have  been  sitting  there  for  a  long  time,  sadly,  without 
speaking.  Are  you  in  trouble,  Julian  dear?  Then  my  heart 

17 


18  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

demands  a  share  in  it,  for  if  my  joys  are  yours  I  want  your 
sorrows  to  be  mine. 

JUL.  In  trouble?  When  you  are  happy!  Sorrows?  When 
in  my  Teodora  I  have  the  sum  of  all  joys?  While  your  cheeks 
show  those  two  roses  and  your  eyes  that  fire  which  is  the 
light  of  the  soul,  shining  in  twin  heavens,  while  I  know  that 
I  alone  am  master  of  your  heart,  what  sorrows  or  troubles  or 
afflictions  could  keep  me  from  being  the  happiest  man  in 
the  whole  world? 

TEO.  And  you  have  no  business  worries,  either? 

JUL.  Money  has  never  yet  made  me  lose  sleep  or  appetite. 
Though  I  have  no  aversion  to  it,  I've  always  been  perfectly 
indifferent,  so  it  has  always  come  running  into  my  coffers  as 
meek  as  a  lamb.  I've  always  been  rich  and  I  am  rich  now, 
and  until  I  die  of  old  age,  thanks  to  God  and  his  own  good 
fortune,  Don  Julian  de  Garagarza  will  have  the  best  credit, 
though  perhaps  not  the  largest  fortune,  of  any  banker  in 
Madrid,  Cadiz,  or  El  Puerto. 

TEO.  Well,  then,  why  were  you  so  preoccupied  a  few 
minutes  ago? 

JUL.  I  was  thinking — thinking  of  something  nice. 

TEO.  That's  not  strange,  Julian,  since  the  thought  was 
yours. 

JUL.  Flatterer,  don't  try  to  wheedle  me! 

TEO.  But  tell  me  what  it  was. 

JUL.  I  wanted  to  close  up  a  promising  little  deal. 

TEO.  Something  about  the  new  works? 

JUL.    Oh,  it's  not  a  question  of  works  of  stone  and  iron. 

TEO.  Of  what,  then? 

JUL.  Of  works  of  charity  and  good-will  in  connection  with 
a  sacred  debt  of  long  standing. 

TEO.  [With  natural  and  spontaneous  joy]  Oh,  I  know! 

JUL.  Really? 

TEO.  You  were  thinking  of  Ernesto. 


ACTI       THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  19 

JUL.  You  have  guessed  right. 

TEO.  Poor  lad,  you  do  well  to  think  of  him.  He  is  so  good, 
so  noble,  so  generous! 

JUL.  Exactly  like  his  father,  the  very  pattern  of  honor  and 
chivalry! 

TEO.  So  he  is!  And  so  talented!  Twenty -six  years  old  . . . 
and  so  scholarly!  He  knows  everything!  Why,  he  is  an  ab- 
solute prodigy! 

JUL.  A  scholar,  you  say?  Well,  that  doesn't  help  much. 
Indeed,  that's  just  the  trouble,  for  I'm  afraid  that  as  he  goes 
about  with  his  head  in  the  clouds,  he'll  never  learn  to  get  on 
in  this  world,  which  is  prosaic  and  treacherous,  and  never 
pays  any  tribute  to  genius  until  some  three  hundred  years  after 
it  has  hounded  it  to  death. 

TEO.  But  with  you  for  a  guide  .  .  .  for  surely,  Julian,  you 
are  not  thinking  of  deserting  him? 

JUL.  Desert  hin> '.  I  should  be  ungrateful  indeed  if  I  could 
forget  what  I  owe  his  father.  For  my  sake  Don  Juan  de 
Acedo  risked  name,  fortune,  even  honor.  If  this  young  man 
wants  the  blood  in  my  veins  he  need  only  ask  for  it,  for  it 
is  ever  ready  to  pay  my  debt  of  honor. 

TEO.  Bravo,  Julian!    Spoken  like  yourself! 

JUL.  You  yourself  saw  how  it  was.  When  they  told  me 
about  a  year  ago  that  Don  Juan  was  dead  and  that  his  son 
was  left  in  poverty,  I  couldn't  take  the  Gerona  train  fast 
enough.  I  fairly  dragged  him  away  by  main  force,  brought 
him  here  with  me,  led  him  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
said  to  him,  "Everything  I  own  is  at  your  disposal,  for  it  is 
really  yours.  I  owe  it  all  to  your  father.  If  you  like,  you 
shall  be  master  of  this  house.  At  least,  look  upon  me  as  a 
second  father.  Though  I  can't  equal  the  first  in  goodness,  I 
shall  strive  to  be  a  close  second,  and  as  for  loving  you.  .  .  . 
Well,  we  shall  see  who  is  best  at  that!" 

TEO.  It's  true!  .  .  .  Those  were  your  very  words;  and  the 


20  THE   GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

poor  boy — he  is  so  good — burst  out  crying  like  a  child,  and 
threw  his  arms  about  your  neck. 

JUL.  You're  right,  he  is  a  child.  And  we  must  think  of 
him  and  of  his  future.  And  now  you  know  why  you  saw  me 
looking  grave  and  preoccupied  a  while  ago.  I  was  trying  to 
think  of  some  way  to  do  for  him  all  I  should  like  to,  while 
you  were  chattering  to  me  about  a  beautiful  view  and  a  glo- 
rious sky  and  a  red  sun,  for  which  I  have  no  use  at  all,  since 
two  far  brighter  suns  shine  for  me  in  our  own  heaven. 

TEO.  But  I  don't  understand?  What  would  you  like  to  do 
for  Ernesto? 

JUL.  That's  what  I  said. 

TEO.  But  how  can  you  possibly  do  more  than  you  have 
done?  For  a  year  now  he  has  been  living  here  with  us  like 
one  of  the  family.  Why,  if  he  were  your  own  son  you  couldn't 
show  greater  love  for  him,  nor  could  I  feel  more  affection  for 
him  if  he  were  my  own  brother. 

JUL.  That's  all  very  well,  but  it's  not  enough. 

TEO.  Not  enough?    Why,  I  believe  .  .  . 

JUL.  You  are  thinking  of  the  present,  and  I  of  the  future. 

TEO.  The  future. — Oh,  I  can  arrange  that  very  easily. — 
Listen!  He  will  live  in  this  house  as  long  as  he  likes — oh, 
for  years — just  as  though  it  were  his  own.  That's  quite 
simple.  Then,  in  due  course,  as  is  right  and  natural,  he  will 
fall  in  love  and  marry.  Then,  honorably  discharging  your 
debts,  you  will  hand  over  to  him  a  large  part  of  your  fortune. 
From  the  church,  he  and  she  will  go  to  his  own  house — for, 
as  the  saying  goes,  "To  be  head  of  a  household  one  needs  a 
house."  But  we  shall  not  forget  him,  nor  shall  we  love  him 
any  the  less  because  he  doesn't  live  here.  And  now  every- 
thing is  quite  clear.  Of  course,  they  are  happy;  we  are  more 
so. — They  have  children — undoubtedly — we  have  more.  At 
any  rate  we  have  a  daughter.  She  and  Ernesto's  son  fall  in 
love  with  each  other. — They  get  married.  .  .  . 


ACTI        THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  21 

JUL.  [Laughing]  But,  good  heavens,  where  does  all  this  end? 

TEO.  You  were  talking  about  the  future,  and  this  is  the 
future  that  I  offer  you.  If  you  have  any  other,  Julian,  I 
don't  like  it,  and  I  won't  accept  it. 

JUL.  Oh,  mine  is  like  yours,  Teodora,  but .  .  . 

TEO.  Mercy  on  us,  here's  a  but  already  . . . 

JUL.  Listen,  Teodora;  in  taking  care  of  this  unfortunate 
young  man  we  are  paying  our  debts  as  we  should — and  to 
the  duty  we  owe  the  son  of  Acedo  are  added  the  demands  of 
the  affection  we  feel  for  him  for  his  own  sake.  But  complica- 
tions enter  into  every  act  of  man.  There  are  always  two 
points  of  view;  the  shield  always  has  a  reverse.  By  which  I 
mean,  Teodora,  that  in  this  case,  giving  help  and  receiving 
it  are  not  simply  opposites,  but  are  entirely  different  things, 
and  that  I  am  af-  aid  in  the  end  he  may  consider  my  gifts  a 
humiliation.  He  is  high-minded,  and  he  is  extremely  proud. 
We  must  find  some  way  out  of  the  situation  for  him,  Teodora. 
We  must  do  still  more  for  him  and  pretend  that  we  are  doing 
less. 

TEO.  How? 

JUL.  You  shall  see.    But  here  he  comes. 

TEO.  Not  a  word! 

ERNESTO  enters  and  stands  at  the  back. 

JUL.  Welcome! 

ERN.  Don  Julian — Teodora. 

He  greets  them  absent-mindedly  and  sits  down  by  the 
table,  lost  in  thought. 

JUL.  [Going  up  to  him]  What's  the  matter? 

ERN.  Nothing. 

JUL.  I  see  something  hi  your  eyes,  and  your  uneasiness 
betrays  you.  Are  you  unhappy? 

ERN.  Nonsense. 

JUL.  Are  you  worried  about  something? 

ERN.  Not  at  all. 


22  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

JUL.  Perhaps  I  am  importunate? 

ERN.  You  importunate!  Good  gracious!  [Rising  and 
going  up  to  him.  Effusively]  No  indeed,  your  affection  moves 
you,  your  friendship  gives  you  the  right,  and  you  read  my 
very  heart  when  you  look  into  my  eyes.  Yes,  sefior,  there  is 
something  wrong.  But  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  Don 
Julian,  forgive  me,  and  you,  too,  I  beg  of  you — [to  TEODORA]. 
I'm  foolish  and  childish  and  ungrateful.  Indeed,  I  don't 
deserve  your  kindness,  I  don't  deserve  your  affection.  I 
ought  to  be  happy  with  such  a  father  and  such  a  sister,  and 
not  think  of  the  morrow — and  yet  I  must  think  of  it.  This 
explanation  makes  me  blush;  but  don't  you  both  understand? 
Yes,  yes,  you  must  understand  that  my  position  here  is  a 
false  one  [Vehemently],  that  I  am  living  here  on  charity. 

TEO.  That  word  . . . 

ERN.  Teodora! 

TEO.  Is  displeasing  to  us. 

ERN.  Yes,  senora,  I  have  spoken  awkwardly,  but  it  is  the 
truth. 

JUL.  And  I  tell  you,  it  is  not  true.  If  any  one  in  this  house 
lives  on  charity,  and  no  mean  charity  at  that,  it  is  not  you, 
but  I. 

ERN.  I  know,  senor,  the  story  of  two  loyal  friends,  and  of 
a  great  fortune  of  which  I  have  no  recollection.  That  noble 
act  did  honor  to  my  father,  but  I  should  stain  that  honor  if  I 
demanded  payment  for  his  kindness.  I  am  a  young  man, 
Don  Julian,  and  although  I  am  not  good  for  much,  I  can  cer- 
tainly do  something  to  earn  my  bread.  Is  this  pride  or  mad- 
ness? I  don't  know,  and  I  have  lost  the  ability  to  judge — 
but  I  have  not  forgotten  that  my  father  used  to  say  to  me, 
"What  you  can  do  yourself,  entrust  to  no  man;  for  what 
you  can  earn  yourself,  be  indebted  to  no  one." 

JUL.  So  my  favors  humiliate  you  and  are  a  burden  to 
you — your  friends  seem  importunate  creditors? 


ACT  i        THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  23 

TEO.  Your  argument  is  fallacious.  You  know  a  great  deal, 
Ernesto,  but  in  this  case  the  heart  knows  more. 

JUL.  My  father  didn't  show  any  such  haughty  disdain  for 
yours.  .  .  . 

TEO.  Friendship,  it  seems,  was  a  different  thing  in  those 
days. 

EBN.  Teodora! 

TEO.  [To  JULIAN]  It's  his  idealism. 

ERN.  It's  true.  I  am  ungracious.  ...  I  know  it.  And 
foolish,  too.  Forgive  me,  Don  Julian.  [Deeply  moved] 

JUL.  [To  TEODORA]  He's  raving  mad. 

TEO.  Why,  he  doesn't  live  on  this  earth  at  all. 

JUL.  You're  right,  wise  man  and  philosopher  though  he 
may  be.  ...  A"'I  he  is  drowning  himself  in  a  puddle  of 
water. 

ERN.  You  say  I  know  nothing  of  the  world  and  can't  make 
my  way  in  it.  It's  true.  But  I  can  see  that  way  dimly,  and 
I  tremble,  I  know  not  why.  I'm  drowning  in  the  puddles  of 
life  as  though  in  the  deep  sea!  They  frighten  me  more,  I 
don't  deny  it,  much  more  than  the  vast  ocean.  The  sea 
stretches  out  to  the  boundaries  set  for  it  by  the  wide  sands; 
the  puddle  sends  its  emanations  throughout  all  space.  Strong 
arms  may  struggle  against  the  waves  of  the  sea;  there  is  no 
way  to  struggle  against  treacherous  infections.  And  if  I 
am  destined  to  be  defeated,  I  pray  only  that  in  the  end,  de- 
feat may  not  dishonor  me.  I  ask  only  to  see  before  me — 
and  this  shall  suffice — the  sea  that  is  waiting  to  engulf  me, 
the  sword  that  shall  pierce  me,  or  the  rock  that  shall  crush 
me;  to  recognize  my  enemy,  to  realize  his  strength  and  his 
fury,  and  to  scorn  him  as  I  fall,  to  scorn  him  as  I  die.  Let 
me  not  gradually  breathe  in  from  the  atmosphere  all  about 
me  the  poison  that  shall  slowly  destroy  me. 

JUL.  Didn't  I  tell  you?    He's  out  of  his  senses. 

TEO.  But,  Ernesto,  what  does  all  this  mean? 


24  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

JUL.  What  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  subject  we  were 
discussing? 

EKN.  It  means,  senor,  that  I  believe  that  when  people 
see  me  living  here  under  your  protection,  they  think  the  same 
things  about  me  that  I  have  been  thinking  about  myself, 
when  I  ride  with  you  in  the  park,  when  I  go  out  with  Teo- 
dora  or  Mercedes  in  the  morning,  when  I  sit  in  your  box 
at  the  opera,  when  I  hunt  in  your  coverts,  when,  day  after 
day,  I  take  the  same  place  at  your  table.  The  fact  is,  senor 
— though  your  goodness  may  not  let  you  believe  it — that 
people  say  to  each  other,  "Who  is  this  man?  Some  relation 
of  his?  Not  at  all.  His  secretary,  then?  No,  not  that, 
either.  His  companion — He  doesn't  add  much  to  the  com- 
pany." That  is  what  they  are  whispering. 

JUL.  Nobody  thinks  that.    You  are  dreaming. 

EBN.  Pardon  me  .  .  . 

JUL.  Well,  let's  have  a  name,  then. 

EBN.  Senor  .  .  . 

JUL.  I'll  be  satisfied  with  just  one. 

ERN.  Then  there  is  some  one  near  at  hand.  The  man  lives 
in  the  third  floor. 

JUL.  And  his  name  is? 

ERN.  Don  Severo. 

JUL.  My  brother? 

ERN.  Exactly,  your  brother.  If  that  isn't  enough,  Dona 
Mercedes,  his  wife.  Another?  Pepito.  And  now  what  have 
you  to  say? 

JUL.  Then  I  say — and  I  stick  to  it,  and  make  no  mis- 
take about  it — that  Severo  is  a  martinet;  that  she  doesn't 
know  what  she  is  talking  about;  and  that  the  boy  is  a 
puppy. 

ERN.  They  only  repeat  what  they  hear. 

JUL.  Enough,  these  are  foolish  scruples.  Where  there  are 
honest  intentions,  upright  people  need  pay  little  heed  to 


ACT  i        THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  25 

what  the  world  may  say.  The  louder  the  whispering  the 
more  deep-seated  the  scorn. 

ERN.  That  is  honorable,  and  that  is  how  every  generous 
man  would  feel.  But  I  have  learned  that  what  people  say, 
either  with  or  without  malice,  begins  by  being  false  and 
ends  by  being  true.  Does  spreading  gossip  reveal  to  us 
hidden  'sin,  and  is  it  a  reflection  of  the  past,  or  does  it  invent 
the  evil  and  lay  a  foundation  for  it?  Does  it  brand  with  the 
seal  of  shame  the  fault  which  already  exists,  or  does  it  en- 
gender vice  and  give  opportunity  for  crime?  Are  gossiping 
tongues  infamous,  or  avenging?  Are  they  accomplices,  or 
heralds?  Executioners,  or  tempters?  Do  they  strike  down, 
or  do  they  cause  us  to  stumble?  Do  they  wound  in  malice, 
or  in  sorrow?  Do  they  condemn  justly,  or  wantonly?  I 
don't  know,  Don  Julian.  Perhaps  they  are  two-edged.  But 
time  and  opportunity  and  the  event  will  show. 

JUL.  See  here,  I  don't  understand  a  word  of  that.  It's  all 
philosophy,  or  madness  rather,  with  which  you  smother  your 
natural  good  sense.  But,  to  be  brief,  I  don't  want  to  dis- 
tress or  annoy  you.  You  want,  Ernesto,  to  earn  for  yourself, 
independently  and  by  your  own  efforts,  an  honorable  posi- 
tion. Isn't  that  it? 

ERN.  Don  Julian — 

JUL.  Answer  me. 

ERN  [Joyfully]  Yes. 

JUL.  Then  you  have  succeeded  already.  I  happen  to  be 
without  a  secretary.  I  have  been  negotiating  for  one  from 
London,  [in  a  tone  of  affectionate  reproach]  but  I  don't  want 
any  one  but  an  eccentric  person  who  would  rather  have  pov- 
erty, hard  work,  and  a  fixed  salary  like  every  one  else,  than 
be  the  son  of  a  man  who  loves  him  as  if  he  were  his  own 
child. 

ERN.  Don  Julian  .  .  . 

JUL.  [In  a  tone  of  mock  seventy]    But  I  am  exacting  and 


26  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

very  business-like,  and  I  don't  pay  good  wages  to  people  for 
nothing.  I  shall  get  all  I  can  out  of  you,  and  in  my  house 
you  will  have  to  earn  your  salt.  You  will  be  at  your  desk 
ten  hours  a  day.  I  wake  up  at  daybreak,  and  I  am  going  to 
be  sterner  with  you  than  Severo.  [Unable  to  control  himself 
any  longer,  and  changing  his  tone  and  opening  his  arms]  That's 
how  we  shall  be  before  the  world,  you  the  victim  of  my  self- 
ishness.— But,  Ernesto,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  I  shall 
feel  the  same  love  for  you! 

EBN.  Don  Julian — 

JUL.  Do  you  accept  the  offer? 

ERN.  Yes.    Do  what  you  like  with  me. 

TEO.  At  last  you  have  tamed  the  wild  beast. 

ERN.  I  will  do  anything  for  you. 

JUL.  That's  right.  That's  the  way  I  like  to  see  you.  Now 
I  shall  write  to  my  kind  correspondent.  I  shall  thank  him 
and  tell  him  that  I  realize  the  unusual  merits  of  the  English- 
man he  recommends,  but  that  he  is  too  late,  as  I  already  have 
a  secretary.  [Turning  towards  the  first  door  to  the  right]  This 
will  do  for  the  present — later  we  shall  see!  [Turning  around 
and  pretending  to  be  very  mysterious]  Perhaps  a  companion 
—then! 

TEO.  For  pity's  sake,  be  still.  Don't  you  see  that  you  are 
frightening  him! 

Exit  DON  JULIAN,  right,  laughing  and  looking  good- 
naturedly  at  ERNESTO.  During  the  scene,  daylight 
has  been  gradually  dying  away,  so  that  by  now  tlie 
room  is  quite  dark. 

ERN.  His  kindness  overwhelms  me!  How  can  I  ever  re- 
pay him? 

He  sinks  down  on  the  sofa,  deeply  moved.  TEODORA 
goes  and  stands  beside  him. 

TEO.  By  resolutely  putting  aside  all  waywardness  and 
distrust;  by  being  reasonable  and  realizing  that  we  really 


ACT  i        THE   GREAT    GALEOTO  27 

love  you,  and  that  we  are  not  going  to  change.  In  short, 
Ernesto,  by  understanding  that  Julian  does  not  make  empty 
promises,  but  that  he  "keeps  his  word,  with  the  result  that  you 
have  in  him  a  father,  and  in  me  a  sister. 

DONA  MERCEDES  and   DON  SEVERO  appear   in  the 
background,  and  remain  there.     The  room  is  quite 
dark,  except  for  a  little  light  from  the  French  window, 
to  which  TEODORA  and  ERNESTO  go. 
ERN.  Ah,  how  good  you  both  are! 

TEO.  And  what  a  child  you  are!    After  today  you  must 
never  be  unhappy  again. 
ERN.  Never. 

MER.  [In  low  tone]    How  dark  it  is! 
SEV.  Come,  Mercedes. 

MER.  There  is  no  one  here.    [Coming  forward] 
SEV.  [Stopping  her]  There  is  some  one  there. 

They  both  stand  at  the  back,  watching. 

ERN.  Teodora,  I  would   gladly   give  my  life,  and  more, 
too,  in  return  for  the  benefits  I  have  received  from  you. 
You  must  think  that  I  am  unfeeling.    I  don't  like  to  make 
protestations  of  affection,  but  I  can  love,  and  I  can  hate,  too. 
Every  one  may  find  in  my  heart  a  reflection  of  the  emotion 
he  chooses  to  arouse  there. 
MER.  What  are  they  saying? 
SEV.  Strange  things. — I  can't  hear  very  well. 

TEODORA  and  ERNESTO  remain  at  the  window,  talking 

in  low  tones. 

MER.  It  certainly  is  Ernesto. 
SEV.  And  she!    It  is  she,  of  course. 
MER.  Teodora! 

SEV.  The  same  tricks,  and  always  together!    I  have  no 
patience  with  it!    And  those  words  .  .  .  Why  do  I  wait? 

MER.  You're  right.     Come,  Severe,  it  has  become  a  mat- 
ter of  duty.    Everybody  is  saying  .  .  . 


28  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

SEV.  [Coming  forward]  I  must  speak  plainly  to  Julian  today. 

MII:.  Poor  girl,  she  is  such  a  child.  I'll  speak  to  her 
myself. 

TEO.  Go  to  some  other  house?  No!  Leave  us?  A  fine 
idea,  indeed !  Julian  would  never  consent  to  it. 

SEV.  Nor  I,  by  heaven.  [To  MERCEDES — aloud]  Oh, 
Teodora,  didn't  you  see  me?  Is  this  the  way  you  receive 
people? 

TEO.  [Coming  away  from  the  window]  Don  Severo,  how  glad 
I  am  to  see  you! 

MER.  Not  at  dinner?    Isn't  it  time  yet? 

TEO.  Ah,  Mercedes. 

SEV.  [Aside]  How  well  she  acts. 

TEO.  I'll  ring  for  lights.     [Touching  a  bell  on  the  table] 

SEV.  Good,  one  likes  to  be  able  to  see  something. 

SERVANT  [Appearing  in  the  doorway]  Seftora. 

TEO.  Lights,  Genero.  [The  servant  goes  out. 

SEV.  Those  who  tread  the  narrow  path  of  duty  and  honor, 
and  are  always  what  they  seem,  need  never  be  afraid  or 
ashamed  of  any  amount  of  light. 

Servants  come  in   with   lights;  the  room  is  brilliantly 
illuminated. 

TEO.  [After  a  little  pause,  laughs  and  speaks  quite  naturally] 
That  applies  to  me  and  to  some  one  else.  [Going  to  MERCEDES] 

MER.  Of  course. 

SEV.  Hello,  hello,  Don  Ernesto.  [Meaningly]  So  you  were 
here  with  Teodora  when  I  came  in? 

ERN.  [Coldly]  As  you  see — apparently. 

SEV.  No,  indeed,  not  apparently,  for  in  the  darkness  one 
couldn't  see  you.  [Going  up  to  him,  taking  hit  hand,  and  look- 
ing at  him  fixedly.  TEODORA  and  MERCEDES  talk  aside. 
SEVERO  says  to  himself]  He  is  flushed  and  seems  to  have  been 
weeping.  Only  children  and  lovers  weep  in  this  world, 
And  where  is  Julian? 


ACT  i       THE   GREAT   GALEOTO  29 

TEO.  He  went  off  to  write  a  letter. 

SEV.  [Aside]  Be  as  patient  as  I  may,  this  man  upsets  me. 
[,4&n«Z]  I  am  going  to  speak  to  him.  [To  TEODOEA]  Is  there 
time  before  dinner? 

TEO.  Plenty  of  time. 

SEV.  [Aside,  rubbing  his  hands  and  looking  at  ERNESTO  and 
TEODORA]  Good.  To  work,  then.  [Aloud]  Au  revoir. 

TEO.  Au  revoir. 

SEV.  [Aside,  looking  at  them  angrily  as  he  goes  out  the  door] 
Upon  my  word! 

MERCEDES  awfl  TEODORA  remain.     They  are  seated  on 
the  sofa.    ERNESTO  is  standing. 

MER.  [To  ERNESTO]  You  haven't  been  to  see  us  today. 

ERN.  No. 

MER.  Nor  Pepito,  either. 

ERN.  No,  seftora. 

MER.  He  is  all  alone  up  there. 

ERN.  [Aside]  Let  him  stay  so! 

MER.  [To  TEODORA,  gravely  and  mysteriously]  I  wish  he'd 
go  away.  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

TEO.  You? 

MER.  [In  the  same  tone]  Yes,  on  a  very  grave  matter. 

TEO.  Speak  then. 

MER.  If  this  man  doesn't  go  ... 

TEO.  [In  a  low  tone]  I  don't  understand? 

MER.  Courage!  [Takes  her  hand  and  strokes  it  affection- 
ately. TEODORA  looks  at  her  in  astonishment,  not  under- 
standing at  aU\  Get  rid  of  him  quickly. 

TEO.  Since  you  insist.  [Aloud]  Ernesto,  will  you  do  me  a 
favor? 

ERN.  I'd  love  to. 

MER.  [,4ffick]  Ah,  there's  too  much  love  about  it. 

TEO.  Then  go  upstairs  to  Pepito — but  perhaps  I  am 
bothering  you  with  this  errand? 


30  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

ERN.  Indeed,  no. 

MER.  How  affectionate  they  are! 

TEO.  Ask  him  ...  if  he  renewed  the  subscription  for  our 
box  at  the  opera  as  I  told  him  to.  He  knows  about  it. 

ERN.  With  pleasure. — I'll  go  at  once. 

TEO.  Thanks,  Ernesto.    I  appreciate — 

ERN.  Not  at  all. 

TEO.  Good-bye.  [ERNESTO  goes  out]  A  grave  matter? 
You  frighten  me,  Mercedes.  This  tone,  this  mysterious  air! 
What  is  it? 

MER.  Something  very  serious. 

TEO.  But  whom  is  it  about? 

MER.  About  all  of  you. 

TEO.  About  us? 

MEB.  About  Julian  and  Ernesto  and  you.  Now  you  under- 
stand. 

TEO.  About  all  three? 

MER.  Yes,  you  three. 

TEO.  [Looks  at  MERCEDES  in  astonishment.  A  short 
pause]  But  tell  me  quickly. 

MER.  [Aside]  I  dislike  doing  it,  but  I  mustn't  falter.  It's 
an  ugly  business.  [Aloud]  Listen,  Teodora:  after  all,  my 
husband  and  yours  are  brothers,  and  we  have  all  become  one 
family,  so  that  in  life  and  in  death,  for  better,  for  worse,  we 
ought  to  support  and  aid  and  advise  each  other.  So  I  gladly 
offer  you  my  protection,  and  tomorrow,  if  need  should  arise, 
I  should  not  be  ashamed  to  ask  help  of  you. 

TEO.  And  you  might  count  upon  us,  Mercedes.  But, 
quick,  tell  me — 

MER.  Until  now  I  was  unwilling  to  take  this  step,  Teodora, 
but  today  Severe  said  to  me,  "I  cannot  suffer  this  any  longer. 
I  value  my  brother's  honor  as  highly  as  any  one,  and  when 
I  see  certain  things,  I  groan  with  shame  and  sorrow.  Always 
making  sly  allusions,  always  watching  for  meaningful  smiles, 


31 

always  lowering  their  eyes,  always  shunning  other  people! 
These  disgraceful  actions  must  end,  for  I  cannot  endure  the 
things  that  are  being  said  in  Madrid." 

TEO.  Go  on,  go  on. 

MEK.  Listen,  then. 

A  pause.      MERCEDES  looks  fixedly  at  TEODORA. 

TEO.  Tell  us;  what  do  they  say? 

MER.  Where  there  is  smoke,  there  is  fire — 

TEO.  I  don't  know  anything  about  smoke  or  anything 
about  fire.  I  only  v:.ow  that  I  am  going  mad. 

MER.  [.4fft£fe]  Poor  child,  it  grieves  me!  [Aloud]  But  don't 
you  understand,  then? 

TEO.  I?    No. 

MER.  [Aside]  She's  dull,  too.  [Aloud — emphatically]  He  is 
a  laughing-stock ! 

TEO.  Who? 

MER.  Who  would  it  be?    Your  husband. 

TEO.  [Rising,  impetuously]  Julian?  It's  a  lie.  The  person 
who  said  that  was  a  scoundrel.  Ah,  if  only  Julian  were  face 
to  face  with  him! 

MER.  [Soothing  her  and  making  her  sit  down  beside  her 
again]  He  would  have  to  face  a  great  many  people,  for  unless 
rumor  is  mistaken,  every  one  is  of  the  same  opinion. 

TEO.  But  tell  me,  then,  what  is  this  scandal?  This  great 
mystery?  What  is  the  world  saying? 

MER.  So  it  makes  you  angry? 

TEO.  Makes  me  angry!    But  what  is  it? 

MEH.  Listen,  Teodora.  You  are  very  young.  At  your 
age  one  does  many  thoughtless  things,  without  meaning  any 
harm.  .  .  and  then  later  come  many  tears.  Come,  don't  you 
understand  me  yet? 

TEO.  No.  Why  should  I  understand  you,  unless  this  story 
is  about  me? 

MER.  It  is  the  story  of  a  wretch,  and  it  is  the  story  of  a  lady. 


32  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

TEO.  [Anxiously]  And  her  name? 

MER.  Her  name  is  ... 

TEO.  [Stopping  her]  What  difference  does  it  make  what 
her  name  is? 

TEODORA  moves  away  from  MERCEDES  without  getting 
up  from  the  sofa.  MERCEDES  draws  nearer  to  her  as 
she  speaks.  The  contrast  between  TEODORA'S  move- 
ment of  repulsion  and  MERCEDES'  of  protection  and 
insistence  is  very  marked. 

MER.  Some  men  are  worthless  and  treacherous,  and  in 
return  for  one  hour  of  pleasure  they  condemn  a  woman  to  a 
life  of  sorrow.  To  her  are  left  only  the  dishonor  of  her 
husband,  the  destruction  of  her  family,  and  the  seal  of  shame 
beneath  which  her  head  is  bowed;  the  scorn  of  others  is  the 
penance  imposed  by  society,  and  God's  still  greater  punish- 
ment: the  voice  of  conscience.  [Now  they  are  at  opposite 
ends  of  the  sofa.  TEODORA  leans  back  and  covers  her  face 
with  her  hands,  understanding  at  last]  Come  to  me,  Teodora. 
[Aside]  Poor  little  girl,  I  pity  her!  [Aloud]  This  man 
doesn't  deserve  you. 

TEO.  Where  is  your  blind  folly  leading  you,  senora?  I 
feel  neither  fear  nor  horror.  There  are  no  tears  in  my  eyes, 
only  blazing  anger.  About  whom  did  you  hear  what  I  have 
just  heard?  Who  is  this  man?  He  is — ?  It  is — ? 

MER.  Ernesto. 

TEO.  Ah!  [A  pause]  And  I  am  the  woman?  [MERCEDES 
makes  a  sign  of  assent,  and  TEODORA  rises]  Then  listen  to  me, 
even  though  I  make  you  angry.  I  don't  know  which  is  more 
vile,  the  world  that  invented  this  story,  or  you  who  repeat 
it  to  me.  A  curse  on  the  slanderous  tongue  that  first  gave 
form  to  such  a  thought,  and  a  curse  on  the  knave  or  the  fool 
who  believes  it!  So  vile,  so  deadly  is  it  that  whether  I  blot 
it  from  my  memory,  or  whether  I  keep  it  there,  I  become 
guilty.  Good  heavens,  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it!  I  never 


ACT  i       THE   GREAT   GALEOTO  33 

would  have  believed  it!  I  saw  him  so  unhappy  that  I  loved 
him  as  a  brother.  Julian  played  Providence  to  him.  And 
he  is  so  generous,  so  noble  .  .  .  [Checking  herself,  watching 
MERCEDES,  and  turning  her  head — Aside]  How  she  looks 
at  me!  I  mustn't  praise  him  before  her.  So  now  I  must 
play  a  part!  [Visibly  trying  to  control  herself] 

MER.  Come,  be  calm. 

TEO.  [Aloud]  I  feel  such  anguish,  such  sorrow,  such  cold- 
ness in  my  very  soul.  To  think  that  my  honor  should  be 
stained  by  public  gossip.  Oh,  mother,  dear  mother!  Oh, 
Julian,  dearest. 

She  sinks,  sobbing,  into  the  chair   at  the   left.    MER- 
CEDES tries  to  console  her. 

MER.  I  didn't  suppose  .  .  .  Oh,  forgive  me  .  .  .  don't  cry! 
I  didn't  believe  there  was  anything  serious.  Of  course,  I 
knew  your  past  exonerated  you.  But  even  so,  you  yourself 
must  admit  that  every  one  might  say  with  justice  that  you 
and  Julian  are  very  imprudent  in  letting  people  think  the 
worst.  You,  a  young  girl  of  twenty,  and  Julian  hi  the  forties, 
and  Ernesto  with  his  head  full  of  fantastic  ideas;  your  hus- 
band wrapped  up  in  his  business,  and  the  other  man  in  his 
dreams.  You  with  nothing  to  occupy  your  mind;  every  day 
a  thousand  opportunities  for  meeting.  .  .  .  The  people  who 
see  you  in  the  park,  in  the  theater,  have  evil  minds  to  think 
such  evil,  but,  Teodora,  to  be  just,  I  believe  that  in  all  that 
has  happened,  the  world  is  in  the  wrong,  but  you  have  given 
it  the  opportunity.  Let  me  tell  you  that  the  sin  that  modern 
society  punishes  most  relentlessly  and  cruelly  and  with  the 
greatest  ingenuity — in  man  or  in  woman — is — don't  be 
frightened,  Teodora — rash  confidence — indiscretion. 

TEO  [Turning  to  MERCEDES,  but  paying  no  attention  to 
what  she  is  saying]  And  you  say  that  Julian — 

MEB.  Yes,  he  is  the  laughing-stock  of  the  city.  And 
you — 


34  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

TEO.  Oh,  never  mind  about  me.  But  Julian  ...  he  is  so 
good,  and  so  sensitive!  When  he  knows — 

MER.  He  probably  does  know.  Severo  is  doubtless  talking 
to  him  this  very  minute. 

TEO.  What! 

JUL.  [Without]  Enough! 

TEO.  Good  heavens! 

JUL.  Leave  me  alone! 

TEO.  Oh,  dear,  let's  go  out  quickly. 

MER.  [After  looking  out  through  the  first  door  to  the  right] 
Yes,  quickly!  He's  beside  himself. 

TEODORA  and  MERCEDES  go  toward  the  left. 

TEO.  [Stopping]  But  what  for?  It  will  seem  as  though 
I  am  guilty.  This  vile  slander  does  more  than  soil,  it  debases 
one.  So  deadly,  so  treacherous  is  it,  that  in  spite  of  all  evi- 
dence against  it,  it  works  its  way  into  one's  consciousness 
with  its  tang  of  guilt.  Why  should  I  be  paralyzed  in  the 
deadly  bonds  of  a  senseless  terror?  [At  this  moment,  DON 
JULIAN  appears  in  the  doorway  to  the  right,  with  DON  SEVERO 
behind  him]  Julian! 

JUL.  Teodora!  [She  runs  to  him  and  lie  presses  her  to  his 
heart,  passionately]  Come  to  me!  .  .  .  This  is  your  post  of 
honor.  [To  SEVERO]  Come  in;  but,  by  heaven,  be  careful 
not  to  go  too  far.  I  swear,  and  I  mean  it,  that  if  any  one 
stains  this  cheek  with  tears  again,  he  shall  never  more  cross 
my  threshold,  even  if  he  is  my  own  brother! 

A  pause.    DON  JULIAN  caresses  and  comforts  TEODORA. 

SEV.  I  only  repeat  what  people  are  saying  about  you, 
Julian. 

JUL.  Libel! 

SEV.  Maybe — 

JUL.  It  is! 

SEV.  But  at  least  let  me  tell  you  what  every  one  knows. 

JUL.  Slanders,  lies,  filth! 


ACT  i        THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  35 

SEV.  I  simply  wanted  to  tell  you. 

JUL.  There  can  be  no  need  for  doing  so.       [A  sliort  pause. 

SEV.  You  are  wrong. 

JUL.  Right,  and  to  spare!  Would  you  track  the  mud  of 
the  streets  into  my  salon? 

SEV.  It  may  be  necessary. 

JUL.  Well,  then,  it  must  not  be  necessary. 

SEV.  My  name  is  the  same  as  yours. 

JUL.  No  more! 

SEV.  And  your  honor — 

JUL.  Remember  that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  my  wife. 
A  pause. 

SEV.  [To  JULIAN,  in  an  undertone]  If  our  father  could  see 
you! 

JUL.  What!    Severo, — what  do  you  mean? 

MER.  Hush!   Ernesto  is  coming. 

TEO.  [Aside]  How  dreadful!    If  he  should  know. 

TEODORA  turns  away  and  hangs  her  head.    JULIAN 
looks  at  her  fixedly. 

ERN.  [Looking  at  TEODORA  and  DON  JULIAN  for  a  minute. 
Aside]  He  and  she. — This  can't  be  all  imagination!  If  what 
I  feared  should  happen?  Then  what  I  have  just  heard  from 
this  fool  [Looking  at  PEPITO,  who  enters  at  this  moment] 
wasn't  all  made  up  by  him. 

PEP.  [Looking  in  surprise  from  one  side  to  the  other]  Greet- 
ing, and  a  good  appetite  to  you.  It's  almost  dinner-time. 
Here's  the  ticket,  Teodora — Don  Julian! 

TEO.  [Mechanically  talcing  the  ticket}  Thanks,  Pepito. 

ERN.  [In  an  undertone  to  DON  JULIAN]  What's  the  matter 
with  Teodora? 

JUL.  Nothing. 

ERN.  [As  before]  She's  pale,  and  she's  been  crying. 

JUL.  [Unable  to  control  himself]  Don't  worry  about  my 
wife. 


36  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

A  pause.  DON  JULIAN  and  ERNESTO  look  at  each 
other. 

ERN.  [Aside]  Poor  souls,  this  has  quite  upset  them. 

PEP.  [To  his  mother,  aside,  pointing  to  ERNESTO]  Mad  as  a 
hatter  just  because  I  joked  about  Teodora  with  him.  My! 
My!  He  wanted  to  kill  me  on  the  spot! 

ERN.  [Aloud.  Sadly,  but  resolutely]  Don  Julian,  I  have 
been  thinking  over  your  generous  offer,  and  although  I  have 
an  awkward  tongue  that  stumbles  and  blunders,  and  I  know 
that  I  am  imposing  upon  your  kindness. — In  short,  senor,  I 
must  refuse  the  position  you  offered  me. 

JUL.  Why? 

ERN.  Because  I  am  made  that  way.  I  am  a  poet,  a  dream- 
er. My  father  never  could  make  a  success  of  me,  senor.  I 
must  travel.  I  am  restless  and  rebellious.  I  can't  settle 
down  like  other  people  to  vegetate  in  one  spot.  I  am  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  adventure;  I  see  myself  as  some  new 
Columbus.  In  short,  let  Don  Severe  say  whether  I  am  right 
or  not. 

SEV.  You  speak  like  a  man  of  understanding,  like  the  very 
fount  of  wisdom.  I  have  been  thinking  the  same  thing  for 
a  long,  long  time. 

JUL.  And  so  you  feel  a  craving  for  travel,  seeing  the  world? 
So  you  want  to  leave  us?  But  how  about  the  necessary  funds? 

SEV.  He — is  going  away — to  some  place  that  will  be  more 
to  his  liking.  Of  course,  for  the  rest  he  must  depend  upon 
you.  Anything  that  he  wants.  I  don't  suppose  he  has  saved 
any  money  at  all? 

ERN.  [To  DON  SEVERO]  I  neither  spread  scandal  nor  re- 
ceive alms!  [A  pause]  But  indeed  this  must  be.  And  as  the 
parting  must  be  sad — since  perhaps  I  may  never  see  you 
again — we  had  better  embrace  now  .  .  .  and  break  this  bond 
.  .  .  and — forgive  my  selfishness.  [Deeply  moved] 

SEV.  [Aside]  How  strangely  they  both  look  at  me! 


ACT  i       THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  37 

TEO.  [Aside]  How  fine  he  is! 

ERN.  Don  Julian,  why  hesitate?  This  is  a  last  farewell. 
He  goes  to  DON  JULIAN  with  open  arms.  DON  JULIAN 
takes  him  in  his  arms  and  they  embrace  tenderly. 

JUL.  No,  all  things  considered,  it  is  neither  the  last  nor 
the  first.  It  is  simply  the  sincere  embrace  of  two  honorable 
men.  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  more  about  this  foolish 
plan. 

SEV.  But  isn't  he  going  away? 

JUL.  Never.  I  don't  change  with  every  wind,  nor  do  I 
give  up  my  cherished  plans  for  the  whim  of  a  boy  or  the  rav- 
ings of  a  madman.  It  would  be  a  still  greater  blot  on  my 
honor  to  regulate  my  conduct  by  the  foolish  gossip  of  this 
most  high-minded  city! 

SEV.  Julian! 

JUL.  Enough.    Dinner  is  ready — 

ERN.  My  dear  father!    I  can't — 

JUL.  But  I  trust  that  you  can.  Or  is  my  authority  burden- 
some to  you? 

ERN.  I  beg  you! 

JUL.  Come,  then,  it  is  time  to  go.  Give  Teodora  your  arm 
and  take  her  in  to  dinner. 

ERN.  Teodora!     [Looking  at  her  and  drawing  back] 

JUL.  Yes — as  usual.  [A  movement  of  doubt  and  hesitation 
from  both.  Finally  ERNESTO  goes  up  to  TEODORA  and  she 
leans  on  his  arm,  but  they  do  not  look  at  each  other,  and  seem 
agitated.  To  PEPITO]  Give  your  mother  your  arm.  [PEPITO 
tf°rs  his  arm  to  MERCEDES]  And,  Severo,  my  dear  brother, 
you  come  with  me  [Leaning  on  his  arm  for  a  minute]  Now  we 
shall  dine  en  famille,  and  our  cup  of  happiness  will  overflow. 
You  say  people  are  whispering  about  us?  All  right.  Let  them 
whisper,  or  let  them  shout.  I  don't  care  a  fig  what  they  say. 
I  wish  I  lived  in  a  palace  with  glass  walls,  so  that  all  those 
who  are  making  free  with  our  names  might  look  in  and  see 


38  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO        ACT  i 

Ernesto  and  Teodora,  so  that  they  might  realize  how  much 
importance  I  attach  to  their  vile  calumnies.  Let  every  man 
go  his  own  way. 

A  servant  appears  in  conventional  dress. 
SERVANT.  Dinner  is  served. 

He  opens  the  dining-room  door.    One  can  see  the  table, 
chairs,  chandeliers,  etc.     Everything  is  very  luxurious. 
JUL.  Well,  let's  attend  to  the  things  of  this  life  and  leave 
them  to  see  to  our  funeral.    Come.  [Urging  them  to  go  in] 
TEO.  Mercedes. 
MEK.  Teodora. 
TEO.  You— 
MER.  You  first. 
TEO.  No,  go  first,  Mercedes. 

MERCEDES  and  PEPITO  go  ahead  and  walk  slowly 
toward  the  dining-room.  TEODORA  and  ERNESTO 
stand  still,  as  though  lost  in  thought.  ERNESTO  fixes 
his  eyes  on  her. 

JUL.  [Aside]  He  is  looking  at  her,  and  she  is  weeping. 
[They  slowly  follow  MERCEDES.    TEODORA  hesitates,  tries  to 
pull  herself  together  and  control  her  tears. — Aside  to  SEVERO] 
Are  they  whispering  to  each  other? 
SEV.  I  don't  know;  I  suppose  so. 

ERNESTO  and  TEODORA  stop  and  look  around  fur- 
tively, then  proceed. 

JUL.  Why  do  they  both  look  back?    Why — ? 
SEV.  Now  you  are  coming  to  your  senses. 
JUL.  Say,    rather,    I    am    catching    your    madness.     Ah, 
scandal  has  a  sure  aim!     It  goes  straight  to  the  heart. 
He  and  SEVERO  go  into  the  dining-room. 

Curtain. 


ACT   II 

A  small  room  furnished  with  extreme  simplicity;  it  is  almost 
poverty-stricken.  At  the  back,  a  door;  to  the  right  of  the 
audience,  another  door;  to  the  left,  a  French  window. 
A  little  pine  bookcase  with  a  few  books  in  it,  a  table,  an 
arm-chair.  The  table  is  at  the  left.  On  it  is  a  framed 
picture  of  DON  JULIAN.  On  the  other  end,  a  frame,  like 
the  first,  but  without  a  picture.  Both  are  rather  small. 
There  are  also  on  the  table,  an  unlighted  lamp,  a  copy  of 
Dante's  "Divine  Comedy,"  opened  at  the  incident  of 
Francesca,  and  a  half-burned  piece  of  paper;  in  addition, 
some  loose  papers  and  the  manuscript  of  a  play.  A  few 
chairs.  This  is  all  the  furniture.  DON  JULIAN,  DON 
SEVEKO,  and  a  servant  enter  at  the  back. 

SEV.  Isn't  your  master  in? 

SERVANT.  No,  senor.    He  went  out  very  early. 

SEV.  Never  mind,  we'll  wait.  I  suppose  Don  Ernesto  is 
sure  to  return  soon? 

SERVANT.  Probably.  The  master  is  most  punctual  and 
exact. 

SEV.  Good.    You  may  go. 

SERVANT.  Yes,  senor.  If  you  want  anything,  I'll  be  at 
hand.  [The  servant  goes  out  at  the  back. 

SEV.  [Looking  about  the  room]  What  simplicity! 

JUL.  What  poverty,  you'd  better  say! 

SEV.  [Looking  through  the  door  at  the  right,  then  through  the 
one  at  the  back]  Well,  this  is  a  splendid  apartment!  A  little 
alcove,  the  anteroom,  this  study,  and  there  you  have  it  all. 

39 


40  THE    GREAT   GALEOTO      ACT  n 

JUL.  And  the  devil  has  all  he  wants  of  human  ingratitude 
and  unworthy  thoughts,  of  despicable  passion,  of  base  cal- 
umny. A  nice  little  pile  it  is. 

SEV.  It  was  simply  chance  that  brought  it  about. 

JUL.  That's  not  the  right  name,  brother.  It  was  brought 
about  by  ...  Well,  I  know  whom — 

SEV.  Who  was  it,  then?     I,  perhaps? 

JUL.  Partly  you.  And  before  you,  the  idle  fools  who  gos- 
siped shamelessly  about  my  honor  and  my  wife.  And  then 
I  myself  who,  like  a  coward,  a  jealous  fool,  a  low  scoundrel, 
let  tliis  young  man  leave  my  house  after  he  had  proved  him- 
self as  noble  as  I  was  base — base  and  ungrateful !  Think  of 
the  splendor  and  luxury  in  which  I  live,  the  magnificence  of 
my  salon,  my  stable,  the  credit  of  my  firm,  the  wealth  I 
enjoy.  Well,  do  you  know  where  every  bit  of  it  came  from? 

SEV.  I  have  quite  forgotten. 

JUL.  There  you  have  it.  Forgetfulness — the  reward  of 
mankind  for  every  generous  act,  for  every  great  sacrifice  that 
one  man  makes  for  another,  if  he  do  it  modestly,  with  no 
blare  of  trumpets  and  shouting  of  heralds — simply  out  of  love 
and  respect. 

SEV.  You  are  unjust  to  yourself.  Your  gratitude  carried 
you  to  such  lengths  that  you  almost  sacrificed  honor,  and 
even  happiness  to  it.  What  more  could  any  one  ask?  What 
more  could  a  saint  do?  There  is  a  limit  to  all  things,  good 
and  bad.  He  is  proud;  he  insisted,  though  you  opposed  him. 
Of  course,  he  is  his  own  master.  He  controls  his  own  person 
and  his  own  acts;  and  one  fine  morning  he  left  the  palace 
in  which  you  live  because  he  wanted  to;  and  in  despair  he 
betook  himself  to  this  garret.  It  is  all  very  sad;  but,  my 
dear  fellow,  who  could  help  it? 

JUL.  Everybody,  if  everybody  had  attended  to  his  own 
affairs  instead  of  throwing  mud  at  other  people,  wagging  his 
tongue, and  gossiping  about  them, and  pointing  at  them!  Tell 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  41 

me,  what  business  of  theirs  was  it  that,  performing  a  sacred 
duty,  I  looked  upon  Ernesto  as  a  son,  and  she  regarded  him  as 
a  brother?  If  they  once  see  a  beautiful  girl  and  a  handsome 
young  man  together  at  my  table,  or  out  walking,  or  at  the 
opera,  do  they  immediately  think  vile  thoughts  and  imagine 
scandals?  Are  we  to  suppose  that  in  this  world  an  impure 
love  is  the  one  sure  bond  between  men  and  women?  Are 
there  no  such  things  as  friendship,  gratitude,  sympathy, 
and  are  we  so  made  that  youth  and  beauty  can  meet 
only  in  the  mud?  And  suppose  even  that  what  they 
thought  were  true,  why  should  the  fools  feel  called  upon 
to  avenge  my  wrongs?  I  have  eyes  to  see  with,  and 
I  have  a  sword,  a  heart,  and  hands  to  guard  my  own 
interests,  and  to  avenge  insults. 

SEV.  Well,  granted  that  perhaps  the  people  who  went 
about  gossiping  were  in  the  wrong,  should  I,  who  am  your 
own  flesh  and  blood,  who  bear  your  name — should  I  have 
been  silent? 

JUL.  No,  by  heaven!  but  you  should  have  been  careful. 
You  should  have  spoken  cautiously  to  me  alone,  and  not  have 
kindled  a  volcano  in  my  household. 

SEV.  I  sinned  through  excess  of  affection.  But  if  I  acknowl- 
edge my  guilt;  if  I  admit  that  the  world  and  I  have  done  the 
harm — it,  by  inventing  the  slander,  I,  by  stupidly  lending 
ear  to  the  thousand  echoes  of  gossip,  you,  at  least,  Julian, 
are  pure  and  free  from  sin.  So  dismiss  your  scruples  and 
be  light-hearted. 

JUL.  I  can't  be  light-hearted,  for  in  my  heart  I  have  shel- 
tered the  very  thing  that  my  reason  and  my  lips  repudiate. 
I  reject  indignantly  the  slanders  of  the  world.  "They  lie," 
I  cry  aloud,  and  under  my  breath  I  repeat,  "But  what  if 
they  do  not  lie,  but  are  right,  after  all!"  So,  in  the  struggle 
between  two  conflicting  impulses,  I  am  at  the  same  time  judge 
and  accomplice.  And  so  I  am  distracted;  I  am  fighting  with 


42  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO       ACT  11 

myself.    Suspicion  grows  and  spreads;  my  wounded  heart 
cries  out  in  anger;  a  blood-red  mist  spreads  about  me. 

SEV.  You  are  raving. 

JUL.  No,  I  am  not  raving.  I  am  laying  bare  my  soul  to 
you,  brother.  Do  you  by  any  chance  think  that  Ernesto 
would  have  left  my  house  if  I  had  stood  in  his  way  with  the 
firm  intention  of  intervening  and  preventing  him?  He  went 
away  because  in  the  depths  of  my  troubled  soul  a  treacherous 
voice  was  sounding,  saying  to  me:  "Leave  the  door  open 
that  he  may  pass  out  freely,  and  then  close  it  tightly  after 
him.  In  the  fortress  of  honor  the  trusting  man  is  a  poor 
steward."  One  wish  was  in  my  heart  and  another  on  my 
lips.  Aloud,  I  said,  "Come  back,  Ernesto,"  and  under 
my  breath,  "Don't  come  back."  When  I  seemed  to  be 
frank  with  him,  I  was  a  hypocrite  and  a  coward,  a 
knave  and  an  ingrate.  No,  Severe,  that  was  not  the 
action  of  an  honorable  man. 

He  sinks  into  the  arm-chair,  near   the  table,  greatly 
moved. 

SEV.  It  was  the  action  of  a  man  who  was  protecting  a 
young,  high-spirited,  and  radiantly  beautiful  wife. 

JUL.  Don't  speak  so  of  Teodora.  She  is  a  mirror  that  we 
sully  with  our  breath  when  we  rashly  try  to  come  too  near  it. 
She  reflected  the  sunlight,  until  the  thousand  viper-heads  of 
the  angry  world  came  near  to  look  at  her.  Now  they  seem 
to  be  swarming  in  the  crystal  inside  the  divine  frame.  But 
they  are  fleshless  spectres.  A  wave  of  my  hand  will  surely 
drive  them  away  and  you  will  see  again  the  clear-blue  sky. 

SEV.  So  much  the  better. 

JUL.  No. 

SEV.  What's  the  trouble? 

JUL.  Trouble  enough.  I  tell  you,  this  inner  struggle  I 
described  to  you  has  warped  my  character.  Now  my  wife 
always  finds  me  sad  and  morose.  I  am  not  as  I  used  to  be. 


ACTII      THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  43 

I  try  in  vain  to  seem  so.  And  as  she  notices  this  change  she 
is  bound  to  ask  herself,  "Where  is  Julian?  Where  is  my  dear 
husband?  What  have  I  done  to  lose  his  confidence?  What 
evil  thoughts  preoccupy  him  and  keep  him  from  my  arms? 
And  so,  a  shadow  is  coming  between  us  which  divides  us  and, 
slowly,  step  by  step,  drives  us  farther  apart.  We  have  no 
more  sweet  confidences,  no  more  quiet  talks.  Our  smiles  are 
frozen;  our  tones  bitter.  I  harbor  unjust  suspicion;  she  is 
in  tears.  I  am  wounded  in  my  love;  she  is  wounded — and 
by  me — in  her  womanly  dignity  and  her  affection.  That's 
how  we  stand. 

SEV.  Then  you're  on  the  road  to  destruction.  If  you  see 
so  clearly  what's  wrong,  why  don't  you  find  a  remedy? 

JUL.  I've  tried  in  vain.  I  know  I  am  wrong  to  doubt  her. 
More  than  that,  I  don't  doubt  her  for  the  present.  But  in 
the  end  as,  little  by  little  I  lose  ground,  and  little  by  little 
he  gains,  who  can  be  sure  that  what  we  call  a  lie  today  may 
not  be  true  tomorrow?  [Seizing  DON  SEVERO  by  the  arm  and 
speaking  to  him  with  restrained  'passion  and  ill-concealed 
eagerness}  I,  jealous,  morose,  unjust;  I,  the  tyrant;  and  he, 
noble,  great-hearted,  always  gentle  and  resigned!  With  the 
halo  of  martyrdom  which  in  every  woman's  eyes  becomes  so 
well  a  handsome  and  gallant  young  man,  it's  clear  that  he 
gets  the  better  part  in  this  unjust  assignment  of  roles;  that 
he  gains  what  I  lose,  while  I  am  powerless  to  help.  This  is 
the  truth;  and  the  result  is  that  meanwhile  the  world  with 
its  idle  talk  plays  traitor  to  them  both,  while  now  they  are 
saying  quite  truthfully,  "But  indeed,  we're  not  in  love  with 
each  other,"  and  as  the  latter  words  re-echo  they  may  be- 
come reality. 

SEV.  Look  here,  Julian,  if  you  feel  this  way,  I  think  the 
wisest  thing  to  do  is  to  let  Ernesto  carry  out  his  plans. 

JUL.  But  that's  what  I've  come  here  to  prevent. 

SEV.  Then  you're  mad.    Isn't  he  thinking  of  going  to 


44  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO      ACT  n 

Buenos  Ayres?     Then  why  worry  about  it?     Just  wish  him 
fair  winds  and  a  full  sail. 

JUL.  Do  you  want  me  to  seem  cruel  and  mean  and  jealous 
in  Teodora's  eyes?  Don't  you  know,  my  dear  brother,  that 
a  woman  may  despise  a  man  and  still  want  him  for  a  lover; 
but  never  for  a  husband?  Do  you  want  my  wife  to  follow 
this  unhappy  exile  across  the  seas. with  sad  memories?  Don't 
you  know  that  if  I  saw  so  much  as  the  trace  of  a  tear  on  her 
cheek,  and  thought  that  it  was  a  tear  for  Ernesto,  I  would 
strangle  her  with  my  own  hands?  [With  concentrated  fury] 

SEV.  What  are  we  to  do  then? 

JUL.  Suffer.  The  world  must  find  a  denouement  for  this 
drama,  which  it  created  simply  by  looking  at  us — so  potent 
is  its  glance  for  good  and  evil. 

SEV.  [Going  back]  I  think  some  one  is  coming. 

SERVANT  [Without]  My  master  can't  be  long  now. 
Enter  PEPITO. 

SEV.  You  here? 

PEP.  [Aside]  Phew,  they've  found  it  out  already.  I've 
overreached  myself.  [Aloud]  So  we're  all  here.  Good-day, 
Uncle.  Good-day,  Papa.  [/Iswfe]  There's  no  use.  They 
know  what's  up.  [Aloud]  And  so  you —  I  suppose,  of  course, 
you've  come  to  look  for  Ernesto? 

SEV.  For  whom  else  in  this  house? 

JUL.  And  I  suppose  you  know  all  that  this  madman  is 
planning? 

PEP.  All  what?  Oh,  of  course, — a  little —  I  know — what 
every  one  knows. 

SEV.  And  is  it  tomorrow  that — ? 

PEP.  No.  Tomorrow  he's  going  away,  so  he  has  to  settle 
this  today. 

JUL.  [With  amazement]  What  did  you  say? 

PEP.  I?  What  Pepe  Ucedo  told  me  last  night  at  the 
casino  door.  And  he  is  the  Viscount  Nebreda's  second,  so  if 


ACT  ii      THE   GREAT   GALEOTO  45 

he  doesn't  know —    But  how  queer  you  look!    Is  it  possible 
you  don't  know? 

JUL.  We  know  everything.  [Resolutely  forestalling  a  move- 
ment on  his  brother's  part] 

SEV.  We— 

JUL.  [^Iswfe]  Be  quiet,  Severe.  [Aloud]  We  heard  that  he 
is  going  away  tomorrow — and  that  today  he  stakes  his  life. 
And  we  came,  naturally,  to  prevent  the  duel  and  the  de- 
parture. 

Throughout  this  scene  DON  JULIAN  pretends  that  he  has 
been  informed  of  the  affair,  so  as  to  learn  tlie  facts 
from  PEPITO,  though  it  is  evident  that  lie  came  only 
on  account  of  ERNESTO'S  voyage. 

SEV.  [Aside  to  JULIAN]  What  is  this  duel? 

JUL.  [Aside  to  SEVEBO]  I  don't  know,  but  we'll  find 
out. 

PEP.  [Aside]  Come,  I  wasn't  such  a  fool  after  all. 

JUL.  I  know  that  a  viscount— 

PEP.  Exactly. 

JUL.  Is  to  fight  a  duel  with  Ernesto.  Some  one  who 
knew  about  it  at  the  time  told  us.  They  say  it's  a  very 
serious  affair —  [Sign  of  assent  from  PEPITO]  a  scandalous 
quarrel;  a  great  many  people  .standing  about. — "You  lie!" 
"You  say  that  I  lie!"  Then  words,  thick  and  fast. 

PEP.  [Interrupting  with  the  eagerness  and  pleasure  of  one 
who  knows  more]  Words!  A  blow  that  would  fell  an  ox. 

SEV.  Who  struck  whom? 

PEP.  Ernesto  struck  the  other  man. 

JUL.  Ernesto.  Didn't  you  hear  about  it?  This  viscount 
exhausted  his  patience  completely — put  him  in  a  perfect 
passion.  Well,  the  poor  boy  broke  loose — 

PEP.  Exactly. 

JUL.  I  told  you  we  knew  all  about  it.  And  is  the  affair 
very  serious? 


46  THE    GREAT   GALEOTO      ACT  n 

PEP.  Very  serious.  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  say  so,  but  I 
might  as  well  be  frank  with  you. 

JUL    What  are  the  conditions? 

PEP.  It's  to  the  death.  And  the  viscount  isn't  afraid,  and 
doesn't  shrink.  He's  a  wonderful  swordsman. 

JUL.  And  the  quarrel?  What  was  it  about?  They  blame 
it  on  Nebreda? 

PEP.  Why,  it  wasn't  exactly  a  quarrel.  I'll  tell  you  how 
it  happened.  Ernesto  was  planning  to  leave  Madrid  to- 
morrow so  as  to  reach  Cadiz  in  time  to  sail  in  the  "Cid," 
and  Luis  Alcaraz  had  promised  him  a  letter  of  introduction, 
which  he  said  would  serve  as  a  good  recommendation.  So 
the  poor  boy  went  to  the  cafe1  to  get  it,  with  the  best  intentions 
in  the  world.  The  other  man  wasn't  there;  he  waited  for 
him.  No  one  then  recognized  him  and  they  go  on  with  their 
pleasant  game  of  tearing  people  to  pieces,  without  noticing 
his  threatening  face  and  set  teeth.  One  by  one  people  are 
mentioned,  and  one  by  one  they  fall.  A  heavy  hand  and 
a  sharp  tongue.  Every  poor  dog  in  the  city  passes  in  re- 
view. And  right  there  in  that  miserable  tavern,  belching 
out  more  smoke  than  a  train,  in  the  midst  of  wine-glasses 
and  cigar  ashes,  and  scattered  lumps  of  sugar,  they  set  up  a 
dissecting-table.  With  each  draught  of  fine  old  wine,  a  wo- 
man's reputation  gone.  At  every  cutting  lash,  a  roar  of 
laughter.  With  four  slashes  of  the  scissors  those  fellows  left 
reputations  in  tatters,  women  torn  to  pieces.  But,  after  all, 
what  does  that  sort  of  thing  amount  to?  Echoes  of  society 
at  the  cafe"  table.  I  don't  say  this  myself,  and  of  course  I 
don't  think  so,  but  that's  what  Ernesto  said  when  he  told 
me  about  it  all. 

JUL.  Go  on.    Will  you  never  get  to  the  point? 

PEP.  Finally,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  names,  some  one 
mentioned  a  certain  man,  and  Ernesto  couldn't  control  him- 
self any  longer.  "Who  dares  besmirch  the  name  of  an  lion- 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  47 

orable  man?"  he  cries  out,  and  they  answer,  "The  lady." 
With  flashing  eyes  he  throws  himself  upon  Nebreda.  The 
poor  viscount  is  completely  bowled  over;  the  public  room  be- 
comes a  field  of  argument.  There  you  have  a  synopsis  of 
the  first  act.  Today  comes  the  duel  with  swords  in  some 
salon — I  don't  know  where. 

JUL.  [Furiously  seizing  his  arm]  And  the  man  was  I? 

PEP.  Senor — 

JUL.  And  Teodora  the  woman?  And  they  have  dragged 
her  and  my  name  and  my  love  to  such  depths? 

SEV.  [Aside  to  PEPITO]  Fool,  what  have  you  done? 

PEP.  Didn't  he  say  he  knew  about  it?  Why  I —  Of 
course — I  thought. 

JUL.  Disgraced,  disgraced! 

SEV.  [Going  up  to  him,  affectionately]  Julian! 

JUL.  True.  I  know  I  must  be  calm.  But  oh,  if  I  lose 
faith,  I  lose  heart.  Great  heavens!  why  should  they  slander 
us  so?  What  right  have  they  to  turn  upon  us  and  throw 
mud  at  us?  No  matter.  I  know  how  to  act  as  befits  a  gentle- 
man. Can  I  count  on  you,  Severe? 

SEV.  Count  on  me?    To  the  death!        [They  clasp  hands. 

JUL.  [To  PEPITO]  The  duel? 

PEP.  At  three. 

JUL.  [Aside]  I'm  going  to  kill  him.  Yes,  I  shall  kill  him. 
[To  SEVERO]  Let's  be  going. 

SEV.  Where? 

JUL.  To  find  this  viscount. 

SEV.  Are  you  going  to — ? 

JUL.  I  am  going  to  do  what  I  can  to  avenge  the  insult 
to  my  honor  and  to  save  the  life  of  Juan  Acedo's  son.  [To 
PEPITO]  Who  are  the  seconds? 

PEP.  Two — Alcaras  and  Ruedo. 

JUL.  I  know  them.  [Pointing  to  PEPITO]  He  can  stay  here 
in  case  of  emergency.  And  if  Ernesto  should  come  back — 


48  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO      ACT  n 

SEV.  I  understand. 

JTJL.  Try,  without  arousing  suspicion,  to  find  out  where  the 
duel  is  to  be. 

SEV.  You  hear? 

JUL.  Come! 

SEV.  Julian,  what  possesses  you? 

JTJL.  Joy  such  as  I  have  not  known  for  a  long  time. 

SEV.  What  the  devil,  are  you  mad?    Joy? 

JUL.  At  the  prospect  of  meeting  this  young  man. 

SEV.  Nebreda? 

JUL.  Yes.  Remember.  Until  now,  calumny  was  intan- 
gible and  I  could  not  see  its  face.  And  now  at  last  I  know 
where  it  is  hiding.  At  last  it  has  taken  human  form,  and 
is  visibly  before  me  in  the  guise  of  a  viscount.  For  three 
months  I  have  been  eating  gall  and  wormwood.  And  now, 
just  think,  I  am  face  to  face  with  him. 

[SEVERO  and  JULIAN  go  out. 

PEP.  Well,  here's  a  mess;  and  a  useless  mess,  too.  Just 
the  same,  no  matter  what  my  uncle  may  say,  it  was  sheer 
madness  to  have  a  young  girl  as  beautiful  as  the  sun  under 
the  same  roof,  in  almost  continual  contact  with  Ernesto, 
who  is  a  handsome  fellow  with  a  soul  all  of  fire,  and  a  head 
full  of  romance.  He  swears  there  is  nothing  between  them 
but  the  purest  sort  of  friendship,  that  he  loves  her  like  a  sis- 
ter, and  that  my  uncle  is  a  father  to  him.  But  I'm  pretty 
sharp,  and  though  I  am  young,  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about 
this  world,  and  I  don't  put  much  faith  in  this  brother-and- 
sister  business;  particularly  where  the  brother  is  so  young, 
and  the  relationship  fictitious.  But  suppose  this  affection 
is  all  they  say  it  is,  how  are  other  people  to  know  that? 
Have  they  signed  any  pledge  always  to  think  well  of  every 
one?  Don't  they  see  them  together  all  the  time — in  the 
theater — in  the  park?  Well,  the  person  who  saw  them,  saw 
them,  and  when  he  saw  them,  he  told  about  it.  Ernesto  swore 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT   jGALEOTO  49 

to  me,  "No"  They  had  almost  never  gone  about  in  that  way. 
Did  he  go  once?  Well,  that's  enough.  If  a  hundred  people 
saw  them  that  day,  they  might  as  well  have  appeared  in 
public  not  once,  but  a  hundred  different  times.  Are  people 
bound  to  examine  their  witnesses  and  compare  their  dates 
to  find  out  whether  it  was  many  times  or  only  once  that  they 
went  out  together,  she  with  her  innocent  sympathy,  and  he 
with  his  brotherly  affection?  Such  a  demand  would  be  un- 
dignified and  unjust — altogether  ridiculous.  They  all  tell 
what  they've  seen,  and  they're  not  lying  when  they  tell  it. 
"I  saw  them  once.  I  saw  them  as  well."  One  and  one  make 
two.  There's  no  way  out.  "And  I  saw  them,  too."  There 
you  have  three  already.  And  this  man,  four;  and  that  one, 
five.  And  so,  adding  up  in  all  good  faith,  you  go  on  indefi- 
nitely. And  they  saw  because  they  looked.  In  short,  be- 
cause naturally  one  uses  one's  senses  and  doesn't  stop  to  ask 
permission.  So  let  him  look  after  himself  and  remember 
that  nowadays  he  who  avoids  the  appearance  of  evil,  avoids 
the  slander  and  the  danger.  [A  little  pause]  And  notice,  I 
am  admitting  the  purity  of  their  affection;  and  that  is  a  very 
important  point;  for,  between  ourselves,  I  must  admit  that 
to  be  near  Teodora  and  not  to  love  her,  one  must  be  as 
steady  as  a  rock.  He  may  be  a  scholar,  and  a  philosopher, 
and  a  mathematician,  and  a  physicist;  but  he's  human, 
and  she's  divine;  and  that's  enough.  If  only  these 
walls  could  speak.  If  Ernesto's  private  thought  scattered 
about  here  could  only  take  visible  form!  Let's  see. 
That  frame,  for  example,  is  empty,  while  in  the  other  is 
Don  Julian's  face.  Teodora  used  to  be  there  as  a  mate  to 
my  'uncle.  I  wonder  why  her  photograph  has  disappeared? 
To  avoid  temptation?  If  that's  the  reason,  it's  pretty  bad! 
But  it's  still  worse  if  she's  left  the  frame  for  a  better  place; 
to  find  shelter  near  his  heart!  Let's  see,  make  out  your 
case  against  him,  little  devils  who  fly  through  the  air, 


50  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO       ACT  n 

spinning  invisible  webs!  Have  no  pity  on  this  mystic, 
this  philosopher!  [Looking  at  the  table  and  seeing  Dante's 
"Inferno"}  And  here's  another  sign.  I've  never  been  to  see 
Ernesto  that  I  haven't  found  this  beautiful  book  open  on 
his  table.  [Reading]  Dante's  "Divine  Comedy"  his  favorite 
poem.  And  apparently  he  never  gets  beyond  this  passage 
about  Franceses.  There  are  two  possible  explanations  for 
this.  Either  Ernesto  never  reads,  or  else  he  always  reads 
the  same  thing.  But  here's  a  spot;  just  as  if  a  tear  had  fallen. 
What  mystery,  what  deep  secret  have  we  here!  How  hard 
it  must  be  for  a  married  man  to  live  in  peace —  A  paper 
burned  to  ashes?  [Taking  it  up  from  the  table]  No,  there  are 
still  some  traces  of  writing  left. 

Gets  up  and  goes  to  the  window,  trying  to  read  what  is 
written  on  the  paper.  At  this  moment  EKNESTO  en- 
ters and,  seeing  him,  stops. 

ERN.  What  are  you  looking  at? 

PEP.  Ah,  Ernesto.  Why,  a  piece  of  paper  that  was  lying 
here.  The  breeze  was  blowing  it  about. 

ERN.  [Taking  it  and  returning  it  to  him  after  a  minute's 
inspection]  I  don't  remember  what  this  is. 

PEP.  They  were  verses.  You  probably  know  about  it. 
[Reading  with  difficulty]  "I  am  prey  to  a  consuming  fire." 
[Aside]  Ah,  the  next  line  rhymes  with  Teodora. 

ERN.  Oh,  some  trifle. 

PEP.  [Stops  reading]  Yes,  that's  all. 

ERN.  This  worthless  paper  is  symbolic  of  our  lives.  A  few 
cries  of  pain,  a  few  flakes  of  ash. 

PEP.  Then  they  were  verses? 

ERN.  Yes,  sometimes  I  don't  know  what  I'm  doing;  I  let 
my  pen  run  on.  And  last  night  I  wrote  those. 

PEP.  And  to  help  this  divine  afflatus,  and  to  get  yourself 
in  the  right  spirit  you  were  seeking  inspiration  in  the  book 
of  the  Master? 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  51 

EBN.  It  seems  to  me — 

PEP.  Oh,  you  needn't  say  anything.  It's  a  marvelous 
work.  [Pointing  at  the  book]  The  episode  of  Francesca — 

ERN.  [Ironically  and  impatiently]  It  seems  you've  turned 
detective  today? 

PEP.  Oh,  I'm  not  entirely  successful  at  it.  Here,  where  the 
book's  open,  it  says  something  I  don't  understand  and  that 
you  must  explain  to  me.  It  says  that,  reading  a  tale  of 
love  by  way  of  pastime,  Paolo  and  Francesca  came  to  the 
place  where  the  author,  showing  himself  no  fool,  tells  so 
freely  of  the  love  of  Lancelot  and  Queen  Guinevere.  That 
was  like  flint  striking  fire.  He  pressed  a  kiss  upon  the  book, 
and  she,  mad  with  love,  kissed  him  upon  the  lips.  And  at 
this  point  the  Florentine  poet  says,  oddly  enough,  but  with 
masterly  conciseness,  these  words  which  are  written  here, 
and  which  I  cannot  understand:  "The  book  they  read  was 
Galeoto,and  they  read  nothing  else."  They  read  nothing  else? 
Of  course,  that's  simple  enough.  But  this  Galeoto,  tell  me, 
where  did  he  come  from  and  who  was  he?  [Pointing  at  some 
papers  that  are  supposedly  the  play]  You  certainly  ought  to 
know.  It's  the  title  of  the  play  you've  written  that  is  to 
make  you  so  famous.  Come,  let's  see. 

[Takes  up  the  play  and  examines  it. 

ERN.  Galeoto  was  the  go-between  for  Lancelot  and  the 
queen.  And  in  all  love-affairs  the  third  person  may  be  called 
Galeoto  by  way  of  pseudonym.  Especially  if  it  is  desirable 
to  avoid  a  more  unpleasant  name  that  brings  trouble  hi  its 
wake. 

PEP.  All  right.  I  see  that.  But  isn't  there  any  appropri- 
ate and  convenient  Spanish  name? 

ERN.  Very  appropriate  and  very  expressive.  This  business 
which  turns  men's  lusts  into  ready  money,  which  plays  upon 
men's  passions  and  grows  fat  on  their  amours  has  a  name  and 
I  know  it;  but  I  would  shackle  myself  if  I  were  to  say  in  so 


52  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO       ACT  n 

many  words  what,  after  all,  I  am  not  going  to  say.  [He 
snatches  the  book  from  PEPITO  and  scatters  its  pages  over  the 
table]  In  each  particular  case  I  find  a  particular  person,  but 
sometimes  Galeoto  is  all  society.  Then  he  works  without 
any  realization  of  the  office  he  is  fulfilling,  but  such  cunning 
has  he  in  undermining  honor  and  virtue,  that  a  greater 
Galeoto  never  has  been  seen,  and  never  will  be.  A  man  and 
woman  are  living  happily  and  peacefully,  doing  then-  duty 
with  all  their  hearts.  No  one  pays  any  attention  to  them 
and  everything  is  as  it  should  be.  But,  by  heaven,  in  this 
great  city  such  a  state  of  affairs  doesn't  last  long.  Some 
fine  morning  some  one  looks  squarely  at  them,  anil  from  that 
time,  either  through  stupidity  or  through  malice,  all  men 
cling  to  the  belief  that  they  are  concealing  an  impure  love. 
Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  say;  the  matter  is  settled. 
No  reasoning  can  convince  them,  nor  does  the  man  exist 
who  can  make  them  waver.  The  most  upright  man  finds 
his  reputation  of  no  avail.  And  the  most  horrible  part  of  it 
all  is  that  in  the  beginning,  people  had  no  just  grounds,  and 
in  the  end  perhaps  they  have.  So  impenetrable  an  atmos- 
phere surrounds  the  poor  victims,  such  a  torrent  sweeps  in 
upon  them,  such  pressure  is  brought  to  bear,  that  without 
realizing  it,  they  are  forced  upon  one  another,  against  their 
will.  They  are  drawn  together,  in  their  fall  they  become  one 
and,  dying,  they  adore  each  other.  The  world  has  been  the 
battering-ram  that  breaks  down  virtue;  it  has  prepared  the 
way  for  sin;  it  has  been  Galeoto  and — [aside]  Away,  away, 
devilish  thought — your  fire  consumes  me! 

PEP.  [/l*irfe]  If  Teodora  reasons  this  way,  heaven  help 
Don  Julian!  [Aloud]  And  perhaps  your  verses  last  night 
were  on  this  subject? 

ERN.  Exactly. 

PEP.  Is  it  .possible  that  any  man  can  calmly  waste  his 
time  and  be  like  this — so  serene,  so  unconcerned,  when  he  is 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  53 

about  to  cross  swords  with  Nebreda,  who,  with  a  foil  in  his 
hand,  is  a  match  for  any  man?  Wouldn't  it  be  more  sensible 
and  more  profitable  for  you  to  be  practising  a  straight  thrust 
or  a  parry,  instead  of  wearing  out  your  brain  with  halting 
verses  of  rebel  heroics?  Now,  really,  don't  you  think  it  rather 
a  serious  matter  to  be  meeting  the  viscount? 

ERN.  No;  and  I  have  good  grounds  for  my  opinion.  If 
I  kill  him,  the  world  profits;  if  he  kills  me,  the  profit  is  mine. 

PEP.  Good.    That's  better. 

ERN.  Let  us  not  talk  any  more  about  it. 

PEP.  [Aside]  Now,  I'll  be  very  clever  about  pumping  him. 
[Going  up  to  him,  in  a  lower  tone]  Will  it  take  place  today? 

ERN.  Yes,  today. 

PEP.  Will  it  be  out  of  doors? 

ERN.  No.  That  wouldn't  be  possible  at  such  an  hour.  An 
affair  that  every  one  knows  about. 

PEP.  In  some  house? 

ERN.  That's  what  I  proposed. 

PEP.  Where? 

ERN.  Upstairs.  [Coldly  and  indifferently]  There's  an  empty 
apartment  with  a  large  salon,  where  the  light  comes  in  from 
the  side.  For  a  handful  of  silver  we  get  a  far  better  place 
for  this  business  than  any  mountain-side,  and  no  one  will  be 
any  the  wiser. 

PEP.  So  now  the  only  thing  necessary — ? 

ERN.  A  sword. 

PEP.  [Going  back]  There  are  voices  outside.  Some  one  is 
coming.  The  seconds? 

ERN.  Perhaps.  • 

PEP.  It  sounds  like  a  woman's  voice.  [Looking  out  of  the 
door] 

ERN.  But  why  doesn't  he  show  them  in?  [A  servant  enters. 

SERVANT.  [Mysteriously]  Some  one  wants  to  see  the  master. 

PEP.  Who  is  it? 


54  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO       ACT  11 

SERVANT.  A  lady. 

ERN.  That's  strange. 

PEP.  [In  a  low  voice,  to  the  servant]  Is  she  very  insistent? 

SERVANT.  She's  crying. 

PEP.  Is  she  young? 

SERVANT.  Well,  I  can't  exactly  say.  The  anteroom  is 
very  dark,  and  the  lady  is  trying  to  cover  her  face,  so  that 
it  certainly  is  hard  to  see  her.  And  she  speaks  so  softly,  oh, 
so  softly,  I  can  hardly  hear  her. 

ERN.  Who  can  it  be? 

PEP.  Some  one  who  wants  to  see  you. 

ERN.  I  can't  imagine — 

PEP.  [Aside]  He  seems  perplexed.  [Aloud]  See  here;  I'll 
go  and  leave  you  to  yourself.  Good-bye,  and  good  luck  to 
you.  [Kissing  him,  and  taking  his  hat.  To  the  SERVANT] 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  stupid? 

SERVANT.  For  the  master  to  tell  me  to  show  her  in. 

PEP.  In  affairs  of  this  sort  you  should  divine  his  intentions; 
then,  until  the  mysterious  lady  has  gone,  don't  dare  to  open 
the  door  for  any  one,  though  the  heavens  fall. 

SERVANT.  Shall  I  tell  her  to  come  in,  then? 

ERN.  [To  PEPITO,  who  is  still  in  the  doorway]  Good-bye. 

PEP.  Good-bye,  Ernesto. 

[PEPITO  and  the  servant  go  out  at  the  back, 

ERN.  A  lady?  Upon  what  pretext  or  for  what  reason? 
[A  pause.  TEODORA  appears  in  the  doorway,  and  stops, 
covering  her  face  with  her  veil]  Here  she  is.  [TEODORA  remains 
at  the  back,  not  daring  to  come  forward.  He  is  in  front,  facing 
her]  You  wished  to  speak  to  me?  If  you  will  be  so  kind, 
senora?  [Inviting  her  to  come  in] 

TEO.  [Raising  her  veil\  Forgive  me,  Ernesto. 

ERN.  Teodora! 

TEO.  I  am  doing  wrong,  I  suppose. 

ERN.  [Abruptly,  stammering]  I — don't  know.    For  I  don't 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  55 

know  to  what  I  owe  so  great  an  honor.  But  what  am  I 
saying?  Why,  in  my  house  you  are  bound  to  meet  with 
such  respect  as  could  be  surpassed  nowhere.  Why,  senora, 
should  you  fear  there  might  be  any  harm  in  it? 

TEO.  There's  no  reason  why.  And  there  was  a  time, 
Ernesto, — it  has  gone  forever, — when  I  would  neither  have 
doubted  nor  feared;  when  any  woman  you  know  might 
have  come  into  your  room  without  a  blush,  without  fear; 
when,  if  you  were  going  away  from  here,  as  they  say 
you  are  going  to  America  tomorrow — I  myself — yes,  since 
those  who  go  away  may  never  come  back,  and  since  it  is  so 
sad  to  lose  a  friend — before  Julian — before  all  the  world- 
would  have  given  you  a  parting  embrace  without  any  thought 
of  harm. 

ERN.  [Makes  a  movement,,  then  checks  himself}  Ah,  Teodora! 

TEO.  But  now — I  suppose  it  is  not  the  same.  There  is  a 
gulf  between  us. 

ERN.  You're  right,  senora.  Now  we  cannot  love  each 
other,  not  even  as  brother  and  sister.  Now  our  hands  are 
stained  if  they  touch  when  we  meet.  The  past  is  over.  We 
must  conquer  ourselves;  we  must  hate  each  other. 

TEO.  [Ingenuously]  Hate  each  other?    Why? 

ERN.  I  hate  you?    Did  I  say  that  to  you,  poor  child? 

TEO.  Yes. 

ERN.  Never  mind  what  I  say.  If  the  occasion  arises,  if 
you  need  my  life,  ask  for  it,  Teodora,  [Passionately]  To  give 
my  life  for  you  would  be  [Controlling  himself  and  changing 
his  tone]  simply  to  do  my  duty.  [A  slight  pause]  Hate!  If 
my  lips  spoke  such  a  word  it  was  because  I  was  thinking  of 
the  wrong.  I  was  thinking  of  the  injury  I  have  involun- 
tarily done  to  one  who  has  been  so  good  to  me.  You,  Teo- 
dora, ought  to  hate  me — I — no —  , 

TEO.  [Sadly]  Ah,  they  have  made  me  weep  much.  You 
are  right  about  that.  [Very  sweetly]  But  you — you,  Ernesto. 


56  THE   GREAT   GALEOTO      ACT  n 

I  cannot  accuse  you.  Nor  would  any  one  blame  you  .who 
was  not  blinded  by  passion.  How  are  you  to  blame  for  the 
whisperings  and  spite  of  an  evil-minded  world,  or  for  poor 
Julian's  black  mood;  for  the  anger  that  tortures  him,  for 
his  tones  that  wound  me,  for  the  agony  that  is  killing  him 
because  he  doubts  my  love? 

EBN.  That  I  cannot  understand;    hi   him,  least  of  all. 
[With  profound  anger]  The  thing  that  puts  one  in  a  fury,  that 
deserves  no  mercy,  for  which  there  is  no  possible  excuse,  is* 
that  any  man  should  doubt  a  woman  like  you. 

TEO.  My  poor  Julian  is  paying  dear  for  his  cruel  doubt. 

ERN.  [Frightened  at  having  accused  JULIAN  before  TEODORA] 
What  am  I  saying?  [Hastening  to  exculpate  JULIAN  and  to 
kill  the  effect  of  what  he  has  said]  Do  I  blame  him?  No.  He 
doubted  as  any  one  would  doubt.  As  every  one  who  loves, 
doubts.  There  is  no  such  tiling  as  love  without  jealousy. 
Why,  there  are  people  who  even  doubt  the  good  God,  Teo- 
dora.  It's  our  earthly  egotism.  The  owner  of  a  treasure 
guards  his  gold  just  because  it  is  gold,  and  he  fears  for 
it.  I  myself,  if  by  some  superhuman  effort  I  succeeded 
hi  making  a  woman  mine,  /  would  be  jealous.  I  would 
be  suspicious  even  of  my  own  brother!  [He  speaks  with 
increasing  exultation.  Suddenly  he  stops,  seeing  that  he  is 
about  to  fall  again  from  another  side  into  the  abyss  from 
which  he  has  just  escaped.  TEODORA  hears  voices  in  the 
direction  of  the  door  at  the  back,  and  goes  toward  it. — Aside] 
Where  are  you  leading  me,  my  heart?  What  are  my 
inmost  feelings?  You  say  the  world  speaks  base  slanders 
and  then  you  justify  them! 

TEO.  Listen,  some  one  is  coming. 

ERN.  Hardly  two  o'clock.     I  wonder  who  it  is? 

TEO.  [With  a  certain  terror]  That's  Julian's  voice.  He's 
probably  coming  in. 

ERN.  No.     He's  stopping. 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  57 

TEO.  [All  in  the  same  tone,  as  if  questioning  ERNESTO]  If 
it  is  Julian — 

Makes  a  movement  in  the  direction  of  the  door  on  the 
right.    ERNESTO  detains  her,  respectfully  but  firmly. 

ERN.  If  it  is  he,  stay  here.  Our  innocence  protects  us. 
If  it  is — those  suspicious  people,  go  in  there.  [Pointing  to  the 
door  at  the  right. — Listening]  It's  nothing,  nothing. 

TEO.  How  my  heart  beats! 

ERN.  You  needn't  be  afraid.  Whoever  wanted  to  come  in 
has  gone  away, — or  else  it  was  an  illusion.  [Coming  forward] 
Teodora! 

TEO.  I  had  to  speak  to  you,  Ernesto,  and  the  time  is  going 
so  fast! 

ERN.  Teodora,  forgive  me — but — perhaps  it's  not  wise. 
If  any  one  should  come — and  some  one  probably  is  coming — 

TEO.  That's  just  why  I  came — to  prevent  it. 

ERN.  You  mean — ? 

TEO.  I  mean  that  I  know  all.  And  the  thought  of  the 
blood  that  you  want  to  shed  for  me  terrifies  me.  It  sets 
my  own  blood  on  fire.  I  feel  it  rising — here.  [Putting  her  hand 
on  her  heart] 

ERN.  Because  it  is  outraged  by  the  shame  and  disgrace 
you  must  suffer  until  I  have  taken  the  viscount's  life  with  my 
own  hand.  He  wanted  mud.  Let  him  have  the  mud  made 
by  his  own  blood. 

TEO.  [Frightened]  Is  it  to  the  death? 

ERN.  Yes.  [Checking  a  gesture  of  supplication  from  TEO- 
DORA] You  can  lead  me  where  you  will,  you  can  do  anything 
with  me,  anything  with  one  exception.  May  the  time  never 
come  when,  remembering  that  insult,  I  can  have  compassion 
on  Nebreda. 

TEO.  [Tearful  and  supplicating]  And  on  me? 

ERN.  On  you? 

TEO.  Yes.    It  will  be  a  terrible  scandal. 


58  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO       ACT  n 

ERN.  Perhaps. 

TEO.  Perhaps?  You  say  it  like  that  and  don't  try  to 
prevent  it,  even  when  I  myself  plead  with  you? 

ERN.  I  can't  prevent  it,  but  I  can  make  him  pay  for  it. 
This  is  what  I  think,  and  this  is  what  I  say;  this  is  what 
keeps  running  through  my  mind.  Others  have  sought  the 
affront,  but  I  shall  seek  the  punishment. 

TEO.  [Going  up  to  him,  and  speaking  in  an  undertone,  as  if 
afraid  of  her  words]  And  Julian? 

ERN.  Julian?    Well? 

TEO.  If  he  should  know? 

ERN.  He  probably  does  know. 

TEO.  And  what  will  he  say? 

ERN.  What  will  he  say? 

TEO.  That  in  my  defence,  who  should  show  his  courage  ex- 
cept my  husband  who  loves  me? 

ERN.  In  defence  of  a  woman?  Any  man  of  honor,  without 
knowing  her,  without  being  relation,  friend,  or  lover!  It's 
enough  to  hear  a  woman  insulted.  You  ask  why  I  am  going 
to  fight  this  duel,  why  I  defend  her?  Because  I  heard  the 
slander  and  I  am  the  man  I  am.  Who  would  refuse  to  take 
up  the  cudgel  in  such  a  cause,  or  who  would  give  up  his  right 
to  do  so?  Wasn't  I  there?  Then  I  was  simply  the  first  man 
on  the  spot. 

TEO.  [Who  has  listened  to  him  attentively,  as  though  domi- 
nated by  his  vigor,  approaches  him  and  presses  his  hand  with 
great  emotion]  That  is  honorable,  noble,  and  worthy  of  you, 
Ernesto.  [Checks  herself,  goes  away  from  ERNESTO,  and  says 
sadly]  But  this  is  humiliating  to  my  poor  Julian! 

ERN.  Humiliating? 

TEO.  Yes,  indeed. 

ERN.  Why? 

TEO.  Because  .  .  . 

ERN.  Who  says  so? 


ACTII       THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  59 

TEO.  Every  one  will  think  so. 

ERN.  But  why? 

TEO.  When  people  hear  that  I  have  been  insulted,  and  that 
it  was  not  my  husband  who  chastised  the  offender,  and  that 
[Lowering  her  voice,  -hanging  lier  head,  and  avoiding  ERNESTO  's 
eyes]  it  was  you  who  took  his  place,  scandal  will  be  heaped 
upon  scandal. 

ERN.  [Convinced,  but  protesting]  Good  heavens,  if  we  have 
to  think  what  people  are  going  to  say  about  everything  that 
we  do,  life  isn't  worth  living  at  all. 

TEO.  But  I  am  right. 

ERN.  You're  right.     But  it's  horrible. 

TEO.  You  yield,  then? 

ERN.  Impossible. 

TEO.  I  beg  you! 

ERN.  No.  It  is  more  important  than  ever,  Teodora,  that 
I  meet  Nebreda,  come  what  may.  The  truth  is  that  the  vis- 
count makes  up  for  his  lack  of  honor  by  his  skill  in  swords- 
manship. 

TEO.  [Somewhat  hurt  by  the  rather  humiliating  protection 
that  ERNESTO  is  offering  to  DON  JULIAN]  My  husband  is  brave, 
too. 

ERN.  The  deuce!  Either  I  don't  make  myself  very  clear, 
or  you  are  very  slow  of  understanding :  I  realize  his  courage. 
But  when  one  man  has  foully  insulted  the  name  or  honor  of 
another  and  satisfaction  is  sought,  no  one  can  guess  what  will 
happen:  which  will  kill,  which  be  killed.  If  this  man,  there- 
fore, is  to  win  in  the  deadly  combat  there  can  be  no  doubt  as 
to  whether  it  is  better  for  him  to  have  Don  Julian  or  Ernesto 
for  an  opponent.  [Sincerely  but  sadly] 

TEO.  [In  real  distress]  You?    Oh,  no.    Not  that. 

ERN.  Why  not?  If  that  is  my  fate,  my  death  will  be  no 
loss  to  any  one,  and  I  myself  will  lose  but  little. 

TEO.  [Hardly  able  to  restrain  her  tears]  Don't  say  that. 


60 

ERN.  Well,  what  do  I  leave  behind  in  the  world?  What 
friendship?  What  love?  What  woman  will  follow  my  body 
weeping  tears  of  love? 

TEO.  [Unable  to  control  her  tears]  All  last  night  I  was  pray- 
ing for  you.  And  you  say  that  no  one —  Oh,  I  don't  want 
you  to  die! 

ERN.  Ah,  a  woman  may  pray  for  any  one —  [Passionately] 
but  she  weeps  for  one  man  only! 

TEO.  [Strangely]  Ernesto! 

ERN.  [Frightened  at  his  own  words]  Yes? 

TEO.  [Drawing  away  from  him]  Nothing. 

ERN.  [Timidly.  Hanging  his  head  and  avoiding  TEODORA'S 
eyes]  If  I  spoke  as  I  did  a  little  while  ago —  I  am  beside  my- 
self. Pay  no  heed  to  me. 

A  pause.     They  stand,  silent,  thinking,  at  a  distance 
from  each  other,  and  not  daring  to  look  at  each  other. 

TEO.  [Pointing  to  the  back]  Again! 

ERN.  Some  one  has  come. 

TEO.  [Going  back  and  listening]  And  they  want  to  come  in. 

ERN.  It  must  be  they.  In  there,  Teodora.  [Pointing  to 
the  room] 

TEO.  My  innocence  protects  me. 

ERN.  But  this  is  not  your  husband. 

TEO.  It's  not  Julian ! 

ERN.  No.    [Leading  her  to  the  right] 

TEO.  I  hoped —  [Stopping  near  the  door,  beseechingly]  Oh, 
give  up  this  duel. 

ERN.  Good  heavens!    Why,  I  struck  him  in  the  face! 

TEO.  [Despairing,  but  realizing  that  any  settlement  is  im- 
possibk]  I  didn't  know  that.  Then  flee — 

ERN.  I  flee? 

TEO.  For  my  sake — for  his.    In  heaven's  name — 

ERN.  I  can  bear  to  be  hated,  but  not  to  be  despised. 

TEO.  Just  one  more  thing.     Are  they  coming  for  you? 


ACT  ii      THE   GREAT   GALEOTO  61 

ERN.  It's  not  time  yet. 

TEO.  You  swear  it? 

ERN.  Yes,  Teodora.     Do  you  hate  me? 

TEO.  Never! 

PEP.  [Without]  It's  no  use.    I  must  see  him. 

ERN.  Quick. 

TEO.  Yes.  [Goes  out,  right. 

PEP.  No  one  shall  stop  me. 

ERN.  Ah,  slander  justifies  itself  and  makes  the  sin  come 
true! 

Enter  PEPITO  at  the  back,  hatless,  and  much  excited. 

PEP.  To  the  devil  with  you!  I  will  go  in.  Ernesto, 
Ernesto! 

ERN.  What's  the  matter? 

PEP.  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you  about  it,  but  I  must. 

ERN.  Speak,  man! 

PEP.  My  head's  in  a  whirl.  Dear  me,  dear  me!  Who 
would  have  thought — ! 

ERN.  Quick!    What  has  happened? 

PEP.  What  has  happened?  A  terrible  calamity.  Don 
Julian  found  out  about  the  duel.  He  came  here  to  look  for 
you.  You  weren't  here.  He  went  to  see  your  seconds.  They 
all  met  at  the  viscount's  house — 

ERN.  At  Nebreda's?    But  how? 

PEP.  Don  Julian  arranged  it.  He  was  like  a  whirlwind 
sweeping  all  before  him,  plans,  conventions,  everything, 
everything. 

ERN.  Go  on.    What  happened? 

PEP.  They're  coming  up  now. 

ERN.  Who? 

PEP.  Why,  they.    They  are  carrying  him  in  their  arms. 

ERN.  You  frighten  me.  Go  on — quick.  [Seizing  him  vio- 
lently and  dragging  him  forward] 

PEP.  He  forced  Nebreda  to  fight  with  him;  would  listen  to 


62  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO      ACT  H 

no  excuse.  So  the  viscount  said,  "With  both,  then."  Don 
Julian  came  up  here.  Your  servant  barred  the  door  and 
swore  you  were  engaged  with  a  lady  and  that  no  one  was  to 
cotne  in;  no  one — 

ERN.  And  then? 

PEP.  Don  Julian  came  down,  saying,  "So  much  the  better. 
I'll  manage  the  whole  affair."  And  he,  Nebreda,  the  seconds, 
my  father,  and  I,  who  arrived  after  them  all. — Well,  the  rest 
is  plain. 

ERN.  They  fought? 

PEP.  Madly,  furiously.  Like  two  men  striving  to  fix  upon 
the  sword's  point  a  heart  that  they  hated. 

ERN.  And  Don  Julian?     No,  it's  a  lie! 

PEP.  They're  here  already. 

ERN.  Hush!   Hush!   Tell  me  who  it  is — and  speak  softly. 

PEP.  See  there. 

DON  JULIAN,  DON  SEVERO,  and  RUEDA  appear  at  the 
back.  They  are  carrying  DON  JULIAN,  who  is  badly 
wounded. 

ERN.  God  help  me!  Don  Julian,  my  benefactor,  my  friend, 
my  father!  [Rushes  to  him,  weeping. 

JUL.  [In  a  weak  voice]  Ernesto. 

ERN.  What  a  wretch  I  am! 

SEV.  Come,  be  quick. 

ERN.  Father! 

SEV.  The  pain  is  killing  him. 

ERN.  You  did  this  for  my  sake.     Forgive  me. 

Taking  JULIAN'S  right  hand,  kneeling  beside  him,  and 
leaning  over  him. 

JUL.  There's  no  need.  You  did  your  duty.  I  have  done 
mine. 

SEV.  A  bed! 

He  releases  JULIAN,  and  PEPITO  takes  his  place. 

PEP.  Let's  go  in  there.    [Pointing  to  tfte  door  at  the  right] 


ACT  ii      THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  63 

ERN.  [In  a  terrible  voice]  Nebreda — 

SEV.  No  more  of  this  folly.     Do  you  want  to  finish  killing 
him? 

ERN.  [In  a  frenzy]  Folly!    We  shall  see.    Oh,  let  them 
both  come. 

PEP.  We'll  put  him  in  your  bed  in  the  alcove. 

[ERNESTO  stops,  terrified. 
ERN.  Where? 
SEV.  In  there. 
PEP.  Yes! 
ERN.  No. 

He  rushes  up  and  stands  in  front  of  the  door.  The 
group,  leading  the  Jialf-fainting  JULIAN,  stops  in 
astonishment. 

SEV.  You  refuse  to  let  him? 
PEP.  You  are  mad! 

SEV.  Stand  aside!    Don't  you  see  he's  dying? 
JUL.  What  does  he  mean?     He  doesn't  want  me? 

Pulling  himself  together  and  looking  at  ERNESTO  with 

mingled  horror  and  astonishment. 
RUEDA.     I  don't  understand. 
PEP.  Nor  I. 

ERN.  He  is  dying,  and  he  beseeches  me  and  he  doubts  me. 
Father! 

SEV.  We  must.  [The  door  opens.    TEODORA  appears. 

ERN.  Good  God! 
SEV. 


.p       ,  She! 
PEP. 

RUEDA.  A  woman! 

TEO.  [Rushing  up  to  JULIAN  and  embracing  him]  Julian ! 
JUL.  [Drawing  away  to  look  at  her,  rising  by  a  violent  effort, 
rejecting  all  help}  Who  is  it?    Teodora! 

[He  falls  to  tlie  floor,  unconscious 
Curtain. 


ACT   III 

The  same  setting  as  Act  I,  except  there  is  a  settle  instead  of  a 
sofa.     It  is  evening.    A  lighted  lamp  is  on  the  table. 

PEP.  At  last  the  crisis  is  over;  at  least  I  can't  hear  any- 
thing. Poor  Don  Julian.  Very  serious,  very  serious.  His 
life  is  in  the  balance.  On  the  one  side  death  awaits  him; 
on  the  other,  another  death.  Two  gulfs  deeper  than  a  hope- 
less love.  The  devil!  With  all  these  tragedies  going  on  in 
the  house  I'm  turning  more  romantic  than  he  with  his 
rhymes  and  his  plots.  Why,  my  head's  a  regular  kaleidoscope 
of  scandals,  duels,  deaths,  treachery  and  infamy!  Heavens, 
what  a  day  and  what  a  night!  And  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
[A  little  pause]  It  was  rank  imprudence  to  pick  him  up  and 
carry  him  off  in  such  a  condition.  But,  the  deuce!  Who 
can  oppose  my  uncle  when  he  sets  his  jaws,  and  frowns  like 
that?  And  you  must  admit  that  he  was  right.  No  honor- 
able man,  so  long  as  there  was  a  breath  of  life  in  him,  would 
have  stayed  in  that  house  in  such  a  situation.  And  he's  a 
proud  and  sensitive  man.  [Going  back]  Who's  coming?  Why, 
it's  my  mother. 

Enter  MERCEDES. 

MER.  How  is  Severe? 

PEP.  He  won't  leave  his  brother  for  a  single  instant.  I 
knew  he  was  devoted  to  him,  but  I  had  no  idea  he  loved  him 
as  much  as  all  this.  I  only  hope  that  things  won't  turn  out 
as  I  fear. 

MER.  And  your  uncle? 

PEP.  He  suffers  in  silence.  Sometimes  he  cries  out 
"Teodora"  in  a  harsh  and  anguished  tone.  At  other  times 

64 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  65 

he  cries,  "Ernesto,"  and  clutches  the  sheet  between  his 
fingers.  Then  he  lies  motionless  as  a  statue,  gazing  fixedly 
into  empty  space,  and  the  cold  sweat  of  death  bathes  his 
brow.  Suddenly  fever  gives  him  strength;  he  raises  himself 
up  in  his  bed,  and  listens  eagerly,  and  says  that  he  and  she 
are  waiting  for  him.  He  gets  up  and  wants  to  go  out,  and 
my  father  resorts  to  tears  and  supplications  to  calm  his 
anxiety.  Calm  it?  He  can't  do  it.  His  burning  blood  is 
carrying  the  anger  of  his  heart  and  the  tears  of  his  soul 
through  all  his  veins.  Let's  go,  mother,  it's  heart-rending  to 
see  the  bitter  distortion  of  his  mouth,  to  see  his  hands  drawn 
up  like  two  claws,  his  hair  all  in  disorder,  and  his  distended 
pupils  eagerly  searching  every  shadow  flickering  in  the  room. 

MEK.  And  when  your  father  sees  him? 

PEP.  He  groans  and  swears  that  he  will  be  avenged;  and  he, 
too,  says  "Teodora";  he,  too,  cries  "Ernesto."  Heaven  for- 
bid that  he  should  meet  them,  for  if  he  does,  nothing  can 
appease  his  anger,  nothing  can  control  his  fury. 

MER.  Your  father  is  very  good. 

PEP.  Yes,  with  a  temper — phew! 

MEK.  It's  true.  He  very  seldom  gets  angry;  but  when 
he  does — 

PEP.  With  all  due  respect,  he  is  as  fierce  as  a  tiger. 

MER.  He  always  has  just  cause. 

PEP.  I  don't  know  about  that,  but  he  undoubtedly  has 
plenty  of  reason  this  time.  But  how  is  Teodora? 

MER.  She's  upstairs.  She  wanted  to  come  down. — And 
she  was  weeping.  A  veritable  Magdalen. 

PEP.  Of  course.     Repentant  or  sinning? 

MER.  Don't  talk  that  way.     Why,  she's  only  a  child. 

PEP.  Who,  innocent,  spotless,  sweet,  pure,  gentle  little 
thing  that  she  is,  has  killed  Don  Julian.  If  you're  right  and 
she  is  only  a  child,  and  she  does  such  things  when  she's  hardly 
out  of  the  cradle,  heaven  help  us  a  few  years  from  now! 


66     THE  GREAT  GALEOTO  ACT  in 

MER.  She  is  hardly  to  blame.  Your  fine  friend  with 
his  play — the  poet,  the  dreamer — has  been  the  cause  of  all 
this. 

PEP.  Well,  I  don't  deny  it. 

MER.  What  does  he  gain  by  it? 

PEP.  Well,  at  present  Ernesto  is  walking  the  streets, 
fleeing  from  his  conscience,  which  he  can't  escape. 

MER.  Has  he  any? 

PEP.  He  may  have. 

MER.  How  sad  it  is! 

PEP.  A  terrible  misfortune. 

MER.  How  we  have  been  deceived! 

PEP.  Cruelly! 

MER.  What  treachery! 

PEP.  Staggering. 

MER.  What  a  scandal! 

PEP.  Unequalled! 

MER.  Poor  Julian! 

PEP.  A  bitter  blow! 
Enter  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  Don  Ernesto. 

MER.  How  dare  he! 

PEP.  What  audacity! 

SERVANT.  I  thought — 

PEP.  You  thought  wrong.  % 

SERVANT.  He  is  just  stopping  in  on  his  way.  He  said  to 
the  coachman,  "I'll  be  right  out.  Wait  here."  So — 

PEP.  [Consulting  his  motlicr]  What  shall  we  do? 

MER.  Let  him  come  in.  [The  SERVANT  goes  out. 

PEP.  I'll  get  rid  of  him. 

MER.  Be  tactful. 

MERCEDES  sits  on  the  settle;  PEPITO  stands  on  the  other 
side  of  the  stage.  Neither  turns  to  greet  ERNESTO, 
who  enters  through  second  wing. 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  67 

ERN.  [Aside]  Scorn, unfriendly  silence!  It  bodes  ill.  From 
now  on  I  shall  be  a  monster  of  wickedness  and  insolence,  even 
though  I  am  entirely  blameless.  Every  one  thinks  so;  they 
all  despise  me. 

PEP.  [Turning  to  him,  and  speaking  in  harsh  tones]  Look 
here,  Ernesto. 

ERN.  What  is  it? 

PEP.  I  want  to  tell  you — 

ERN.  To  get  out  of  here? 

PEP.  [Changing  his  tone]  Goodness,  what  an  idea!  It 
was —  I  just  wanted  to  ask — if  it  is  true —  [As  if  hunting  for 
his  words]  that  afterwards,  the  viscount — 

ERN.  [Gloomily,  hanging  his  head]  Yes. 

PEP.  With  your  own  hands? 

ERN.  When  I  went  out  of  the  house  I  was  beside  myself. 
They  were  coming  down. — I  stopped  them. — We  went  up 
again. — I  shut  the  door.  Two  men,  two  witnesses, — two 
swords, — then — I  don't  know  how — two  blades  crossing. — 
A  cry — a  blow — a  sob — blood  flowing — a  murderer  standing 
there — and  a  man  lying  on  the  ground. 

PEP.  The  devil!  You  have  a  good  aim.  Did  you  hear, 
mother? 

MER.  Still  more  blood! 

PEP.  Nebreda  deserved  it! 

ERN.  Mercedes,  I  beg  of  you — just  one  word!  Don 
Julian?  Don  Julian?  If  you  only  realized  my  anxiety,  my 
grief.  What  do  they  say? 

MER.  That  his  wound  is  mortal,  and  that  it  grows  more 
dangerous  the  nearer  you  come  to  his  bed  of  death  and 
sorrow.  Leave  this  house. 

ERN.  I  want  to  see  him. 

MER.  Go  at  once! 

ERN.  No! 

PEP.  Such  insolence! 


68     THE  GREAT  GALEOTO  ACT  in 

ERN.  Is  quite  worthy  of  me!  [To  MERCEDES,  respectfully] 
Forgive  me,  senora,  I  am  what  others  make  me. 

MER.  For  heaven's  sake,  Ernesto! 

ERN.  Listen,  Mercedes.  When  a  man  like  me  is  trampled 
upon  and  is  called  infamous  without  reason,  and  is  forced 
and  dragged  into  sin,  the  struggle  that  results  is  dangerous — 
for  all,  but  not  for  me;  for  in  this  fierce  struggle  with  in- 
visible beings,  I  have  lost  honor,  affection,  love,  and  there  is 
nothing  left  for  me  to  lose  but  the  sad  tatters  of  an  insipid 
and  monotonous  existence.  I  came  only  to  find  out  if  there 
is  any  hope — that's  all.  Well,  why  do  you  deny  me  that 
consolation?  [Beseeching  MERCEDES]  Just  one  word! 

MER.  Well — they  say — that  he  is  better. 

ERN.  But  the  truth?  They're  not  deceiving  me?  It's 
true?  They're  sure  of  it?  Ah,  you  are  compassionate!  You 
are  good!  Can  it  be  true?  Good  God!  can  it  be. true? 
O  Lord,  save  him!  Don't  let  him  die!  Let  him  be  happy 
once  more!  Let  him  forgive  me!  Let  him  embrace  me 
again!  Let  me  live  to  see  it! 

He  sinks  into  the  chair  nearest  to  the  table  and  hides  his 
face  in  his  hands,  sobbing.  MERCEDES  and  PEPITO 
go  over  to  ERNESTO. 

MER.  If  your  father  hears — if  your  father  comes — !  [To 
ERNESTO]  Courage! 

PEP.  A  man  crying!  [Aside]  These  nervous  people  are  ter- 
rible. One  minute  they  weep,  and  the  next  they  kill  some  one. 

ERN.  If  I  cry,  if  my  throat  is  torn  by  hysterical  sobs,  if  I 
am  as  weak  as  a  woman  or  a  child,  don't  think  it's  for  my  own 
sake.  It's  for  him,  for  her,  for  their  lost  happiness;  for  their 
good  name,  stained  forever;  for  the  injury  I  have  done  them 
in  return  for  their  love  and  their  favors!  I  don't  weep  for 
my  misfortunes,  for  my  dark  lot!  And,  by  heaven!  if  the 
sad  past  could  be  wiped  out  with  tears,  I'd  turn  all  my  blood 
into  tears  and  not  leave  a  drop  in  my  veins! 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  69 

MER.  Be  still,  for  pity's  sake! 

PEP.  We'll  talk  of  tears  and  sorrow  later. 

ERN.  If  every  one  else  is  talking  now,  why  shouldn't  we 
talk,  too?  The  whole  town  is  a  seething,  boiling  whirlpool 
that  sucks  in  and  absorbs  and  devours  and  utterly  destroys 
the  honor,  the  good  name,  the  very  being  of  three  people, 
and  carries  them  away  on  the  spray  of  laughter  through  the 
canal  of  human  misery  to  the  social  abyss  of  shame,  and  there 
drowns  forever  the  future,  the  fair  name,  and  the  memory, 
of  these  unhappy  beings. 

MER.  Speak  lower,  Ernesto. 

ERN.  No;  they  aren't  whispering;  they're  shouting  aloud. 
Why,  the  air  fairly  resounds !  There  isn't  a  person  who  doesn't 
know  the  tragic  story,  but  every  one  tells  it  his  own  way. 
Wonder  of  wonders,  people  always  know  everything;  but, 
sad  to  say,  never  the  truth.  [ERNESTO  is  standing  up  now, 
and  MERCEDES  and  PEPITO  are  listening  eagerly  to  hear  what 
is  being  said  in  the  town}  Some  say  that  Teodora  was  sur- 
prised by  her  husband  in  my  house,  and  that  I  rushed  at 
him,  blind  with  fury,  and  plunged  my  cowardly  dagger  into 
his  breast;  others,  my  friends  apparently,  give  me  a  higher 
rank  than  that  of  a  vulgar  assassin:  I  killed  him,  but  in  an 
honorable  fight,  a  properly  arranged  duel.  There  are  some,  of 
course,  who  know  more  of  the  details,  and  they  say  that 
Julian  took  my  place  in  the  affair  that  had  been  arranged  with 
Nebreda.  ...  I  arrived  too  late  ...  on  purpose,  or  through 
cowardice,  or  because  I  was  in  the  arms  of  ...  No,  the  vile 
words  burn  my  lips;  my  brain  is  on  fire!  Think  of  the 
filthiest,  the  lowest,  vilest,  most  infamous  thing  imaginable: 
dregs  of  the  heart,  ashes  of  the  soul,  evil  scourings  of  unclean 
minds;  cast  it  to  the  breezes  blowing  through  the  streets, 
salt  all  lips  and  tongues  with  it,  and  you'll  have  the  story,  and 
you  will  learn  then  what  remains  of  two  honorable  men  and  a 
woman,  when  their  reputations  are  bandied  about  the  town! 


70     THE  GREAT  GALEOTO  ACT  in 

MER.  I  don't  deny  that  it's  all  most  unfortunate.  But 
perhaps  we  can't  altogether  blame  these  people  for  the  con- 
clusions they  draw. 

PEP.  Teodora  went  to  your  house  .  .  .  she  was  there — 

ERN.  To  prevent  the  duel  with  Nebreda. 

PEP.  Then  why  did  she  hide? 

ERN.  Because  we  were  afraid  her  presence  there  would 
look  suspicious. 

PEP.  The  explanation  is  easy  and  simple  enough.  The 
difficulty,  Ernesto,  is  to  make  people  believe  it.  There's 
another  one  that  is  still  easier,  and  simpler — 

ERN.  And  more  shameful! — so  that  is  the  best  one. 

PEP.  Grant  at  least  that  Teodora  was  indiscreet,  though 
she  was  not  guilty. 

ERN.  Guilt  is  wily  and  cautious.  On  the  other  hand,  how 
rash  is  innocence! 

PEP.  That's  all  very  well  for  saints  and  angels,  but  when 
you  apply  that  rule  to  every  one — 

ERN.  Oh,  well,  you're  right.  Of  what  value  or  importance 
are  such  calumnies?  Why  worry  about  them?  The  hor- 
rible part  is  that  one's  very  thoughts  are  tainted  by  the  fatal 
contact  with  this  fatal  idea!  If  one  ever  thinks  of  crime,  it 
becomes  familiar  to  one's  consciousness.  One  looks  on  it 
with  fear  and  loathing — but  one  looks  on  it — at  night,  in  the 
darkness!  That's  how  it  is !  [^sitfe]  But  what's  the  matter? 
Why  do  they  look  at  me  so  strangely  as  they  listen?  [Aloud] 
You  know  me;  I  bear  an  honorable  name!  ...  If  I  killed 
Nebreda  simply  because  he  lied,  what  would  I  not  do  if  by 
my  own  guilt  I  turned  his  slanders  into  truth! 

PEP.  [Aside  to  MERCEDES]  And  he  denied  it!  It's  plain 
as  day! 

MER.  This  is  madness! 

PEP.  The  one  thing  that's  plain  is  that  he  confesses! 

MER.  [Aloud]  Leave  us,  Ernesto. 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  71 

ERN.  Impossible.  If  I  were  far  from  his  bed  tonight  I 
should  go  mad. 

MER.  But  if  Severe  comes  and  sees  you? 

ERN.  What  difference  will  that  make  to  me?  He's  an 
honorable  man.  All  the  better!  Let  him  come.  He  who 
fears  runs  away,  and  he  fears  who  has  deceived,  so  it's  not 
likely  that  I  shall  either  run  from  him  or  fear  him. 

PEP.  [Listening]  Some  one  is  coming. 

MER.  It's  he. 

PEP.  It's  not  he.    Teodora! 

ERN.  It's  Teodora!  .  .  .  Teodora!  ...  I  want  to  see  her! 

MER.  [Sternly]  Ernesto! 

PEP.  Ernesto! 

ERN.  Yes,  to  ask  her  to  forgive  me. 

MER.  You  don't  realize — 

ERN.  I  realize  everything,  and  I  understand.  We  two 
together?  Oh,  no —  Enough!  You  needn't  be  afraid.  I 
may  give  my  blood  for  her,  give  my  life,  my  future,  my 
honor,  and  my  conscience. . . .  But  see  each  other!  Never . . . 
It's  no  longer  possible — a  blood -red  cloud  separates  us! 

[He  goes  out,  left. 

MER.  Leave  me  alone  with  her.  Go  in  with  your  father. 
I  want  to  search  the  very  bottom  of  her  heart.  I  know  too 
well  that  my  words  will  be  like  daggers  to  her. 

PEP.  Well,  I  leave  you  together. 

MER.  Good-bye. 

PEP.  Good-bye.  [He  goes  out,  right. 

MER.  Now,  to  work!  [TEODORA  enters  timidly,  and  stops  by 
JULIAN'S  door.  She  listens  anxiously,  stifling  her  sobs  with 
her  handkerchief  ]  Teodora  . . . 

TEO.  Is  that  you? 

MER.  Courage!    What  good  will  it  do  to  weep? 

TEO.  How  is  he?    How  is  he?    The  truth! 

MER.  Much  better. 


73     THE  GREAT  GALEOTO  ACT  in 

TEO.  Will  he  recover? 

MER.  I  think  so. 

TEO.  O  God,  take  my  life  for  his! 

MER.  [Brings  her  forward  affectionately]  And  then  .  .  . 
then  I  trust  in  your  judgment,  for  I  see  by  your  tears  and 
your  anxiety  that  you  are  repentant. 

TEO.  Yes.  [MERCEDES  sits  down  and  watches  her  suspi- 
ciously} It's  quite  true  I  did  very  wrong  to  go  and  see  him. 
[MERCEDES,  seeing  that  this  is  not  the  kind  of  repentance  that 
she  meant,  shows  her  disapproval]  But  last  night  you  told  me 
about  the  insult  and  the  duel.  .  .  .  I'm  grateful  for  your  kind- 
ness, though  you  can't  realize,  and  I  wouldn't  know  how  to 
explain  to  you  the  harm  you  have  done  me.  What  a  night! 
Groaning  and  raving!  Dear  Julian's  anger!  the  scandal! 
the  insult! .  .  .  the  blood!  .  .  .  the  terrible  struggle!  ...  It  all 
passed  before  my  eyes!  And  poor  Ernesto,  too,  perhaps 
dying  for  me.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  look  at  me  that  way?  What 
harm  is  there  in  that?  Don't  you  believe  me?  Do  you  think 
as  the  rest  do? 

MER.  [Drily]  I  think  you  needn't  have  feared  for  this 
young  man's  life. 

TEO.  No?  Nebreda  is  a  famous  swordsman!  You  see — 
my  Julian — 

MER.  In  brief,  your  Julian  is  avenged  and  the  duellist  is 
laid  low  with  a  wound  in  his  heart,  so  your  doubts  and  fears 
were  unfounded.  [Coldly  and  meaningly] 

TEO.  [With  interest]  Did  Ernesto  do  it? 

MER.  Yes,  Ernesto. 

TEO.  He  met  the  viscount? 

MER.  Face  to  face! 

TEO.  [Unable  to  control  herself]  Ah,  how  brave  and  noble! 

MER.  Teodora! 

TEO.  What  is  it?    Tell  me. 

MER.  I  can  read  your  thoughts. 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  73 

TEO.  My  thoughts? 

MER.  Yes. 

TEO.  What  thoughts? 

MER.  You  know  very  well! 

TEO.  I  did  wrong  to  show  my  happiness  at  seeing  Julian 
avenged;  but  it  was  an  impulse  from  my  heart  that  I  couldn't 
control. 

MER.  That's  not  what  you  were  thinking. 

TEO.  Then  you  must  know  more  about  it  than  I  do? 

MER.  [Meaningly]  Listen,  when  the  heart  admires  greatly 
it  is  on  the  road  to  love. 

TEO.  You  say  I  admire  something? 

MER.  This  young  man's  courage. 

TEO.  His  goodness. 

MER.  It's  all  one,  that  is  the  beginning. 

TEO.  These  are  the  ravings  of  madness. 

MER.  It  is  madness  ...  on  your  part. 

TEO.  Will  you  never  understand!  .  .  .  Always  this  terrible 
idea?  Why,  I  feel  only  infinite  pity! 

MER.  For  whom? 

TEO.  For  whom  would  it  be?    For  Julian! 

MER.  Have  you  never  heard  that  pity  and  forgetfulness 
go  hand  in  hand  in  women! 

TEO.  Be  still,  for  mercy's  sake! 

MER.  I  want  to  awaken  your  conscience  with  the  voice  of 
my  experience  and  the  light  of  truth.  [A  "pause. 

TEO.  I  am  listening  to  you,  and  as  I  listen  you  seem  to 
me  not  like  a  mother,  a  sister,  or  a  friend;  your  words 
sound  to  me  as  though  Satan  were  counselling  you  and 
inspiring  you  and  speaking  through  your  lips.  Why  do  you 
want  to  convince  me  that  my  love  for  my  husband  is  a 
lie — a  lie  of  the  soul — and  that  a  rival  love  is  foully  growing 
there,  whose  flame  consumes  and  defiles?  Why,  I  love  him 
as  I  have  always  loved  him,  I  would  give  the  very  last  drop 


74     THE  GREAT  GALEOTO  ACT  in 

of  the  blood  that  runs  through  my  veins  and  sets  me  on  fire, 
for  a  single  instant  of  life  for  that  man  from  whom  they 
separate  me.  I  would  go  in  there  this  very  minute  if  your 
husband  would  let  me.  And  I  would  clasp  Julian  in  my  arms 
and  would  bathe  him  with  my  tears,  with  such  tender  love 
and  such  passion  that  his  doubts  would  be  consumed  by  the 
fire  of  our  souls.  But  just  because  I  adore  Julian,  must  I  be 
so  ungrateful  as  to  hate  the  noble  and  generous  man  who 
risked  his  life  for  me?  And  if  I  don't  hate  him,  must  I  love 
him?  Heaven  help  me!  The  world  thinks  such  things.  I 
hear  such  strange  stories,  I  see  such  sad  things  happen,  I  have 
such  slanders  heaped  upon  me,  that  sometimes  I  begin  to 
doubt  myself  and  I  ask  myself  in  horror:  Am  I,  perhaps, 
what  they  all  say  I  am?  Do  I  nourish  an  unlawful  passion 
in  the  very  depths  of  my  being,  consuming  me  without  my 
knowledge,  and  will  the  evil  flame  break  out  some  sad  and 
ill-omened  hour  and  overpower  my  will  and  my  senses? 

MER.  Are  you  telling  me  the  truth? 

TEO.  The  absolute  truth. 

MER.  You  don't  love  him? 

TEO.  Listen,  Mercedes.  I  don't  know  how  to  convince 
you.  Any  other  time  such  a  question  would  make  my  blood 
boil;  yet  now,  as  you  see,  I  am  calmly  discussing  the  question 
whether  or  not  I  am  an  honest  woman.  Can  that  mean  that 
I  really  am  one?  At  the  bottom  of  my  heart?  No;  to  endure 
the  humiliation  is  to  deserve  the  shame. 

She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sinks  down  on  the 
settle. 

MER.  Don't  cry.  Come,  I  believe  you.  Don't  cry, 
Teodora.  Enough.  No  more  of  this.  Just  one  word  more, 
Teodora,  and  then  I  have  finished.  Ernesto  is  not  what 
you  think  him:  he  doesn't  deserve  your  confidence. 

TEO.  He  is  good,  Mercedes. 

MER.  No. 


ACT  m     THE    GREAT   GALEOTO  75 

TEO.  He  loves  Julian. 

MER.  He  is  deceiving  him. 

TEO.  Again!    Good  heavens! 

MER.  I  don't  say  that  you  would  listen  to  his  declarations. 
I  only  say  ...  I  only  say  that  he  loves  you. 

TEO.  [In  horror,  rising]  He  loves  me? 

MER.  Every  one  knows  it.  A  little  while  ago  in  this  very 
room,  before  me,  before  my  son  .  .  .  now,  you  see. 

TEO.  [Anxiously]  Well,  go  on.    What  was  it? 

MER.  He  confessed  it  openly,  and  in  impassioned  words 
swore  that  for  you  he  would  give  life,  honor,  conscience, 
and  soul.  And  when  you  came  he  wanted  to  see  you, 
and  it  was  only  by  urgent  insistence  that  I  persuaded 
him  to  go  in  there.  I  am  on  pins  and  needles  now  for 
fear  Severo  may  find  him,  and  his  anger  break  out!  Now 
what  do  you  say? 

TEO.  [In  spite  of  herself  she  has  followed  this  speech  with  a 
strange,  indefinable  mixture  of  interest,  horror,  and  fear]  Good 
heavens!  Can  such  infamy  be?  And  I  grieved  for  him!  I 
professed  such  sincere  affection  for  him! 

MER.  Are  you  crying  again? 

TEO.  Can  the  soul  help  weeping  at  the  disillusionments  of 
this  unhappy  life?  A  man  so  noble,  so  pure  ...  to  see  him 
fallen  and  defiled!  You  say  he  is  in  there!  He!  Ernesto! 
Holy  Virgin!  Listen,  Mercedes — Mercedes — he  must  leave 
this  house! 

MER.  [With  real  joy]  That  is  what  I  want.  Your  vehem- 
ence delights  me.  Forgive  me.  Now  I  believe  you. 

TEO.  But  you  didn't  before? 

MER.  Hush!    Be  still!    He  is  coming! 

TEO.  [Impatiently]  I  won't  see  him!  You  tell  him.  .  .  . 
Julian  is  waiting  for  me.  [Turning  to  the  right] 

MER.  Impossible.  .  .  .  You  know  it  now. . . .  And  he  won't 
obey  me.  Now  that  I  fully  understand  your  feelings,  I 


76  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO     ACTIII 

want  him  to  see  in  you  the  scorn  which  he  met  with  before  in 
my  words. 

TEO.  Let  me  go. 

Enter  ERNESTO. 

ERN.  [Stopping  at  the  entrance]  Teodora! 

MER.  [Aside  to  TEODORA]  It's  too  late.  Do  your  duty 
and  that  will  be  enough.  [Aloud  to  ERNESTO]  Teodora,  as 
mistress  of  this  house,  is  going  to  repeat  to  you  the  command 
that  you  heard  from  my  lips  a  little  while  ago. 

TEO.  [In  a  low  voice  to  MERCEDES]  Don't  leave  me. 

MER.  Are  you  afraid  of  something? 

TEO.  I  afraid!    I  fear  nothing! 

[Signs  to  her  to  go.     She  goes  out,  right. 

ERN.  The  command  was  .  .  .  that  I  should  go  away.  [A 
pause.  They  are  both  silent  and  do  not  dare  look  at  each  otJier] 
And  you  ...  do  you  repeat  it  now?  [TEODORA  makes  a  sign 
of  assent,  but  does  not  meet  his  eye]  Then  don't  be  afraid, 
Teodora.  I  obey,  I  respect  your  commands.  [Sadly  and  re- 
spectfully] The  others  sha'n't  make  me  obey.little  as  it  pleases 
them.  [Harshly]  But  from  you — even  though  you  hurt — 
from  you  I  can  suffer  all  things. 

TEO.  Hurt  you,  Ernesto!     No.     Do  you  think  that  I .  .  .  ? 

ERN.  I  don't  think  so.  [Another  pause. 

TEO.  [Without  turning  round  or  looking  at  him]  Good-bye. 
I  wish  you  all  happiness. 

ERN.  Good-bye,  Teodora.  [He  pauses  a  moment,  but  site  does 
not  turn,  or  look  at  him,  or  put  out  her  hand.  Finally  he  starts 
to  go.  Then  he  turns  and  goes  up  to  her.  TEODORA  feels 
him  coming,  but  does  not  turn  her  eyes  toward  him]  If  I  could 
wipe  out  now  by  my  death  all  the  harm  I  have  done  you  in 
spite  of  myself,  because  of  my  unhappy  fate,  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  soon  not  even  a  shadow  of  the  past 
would  remain,  not  a  sigh  of  agony,  nor  that  sad  pallor, 
[TEODORA  raises  her  head  and  loofo  at  him  in  terror]  nor  that 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  77 

look  that  frightens  me,  not  a  sob  in  your  throat,  [TEODORA 
does  indeed  stifle  a  sob]  not  a  tear  on  your  cheek. 

TEO.  [Aside,  drawing  away  from  ERNESTO]  Mercedes  told 
the  truth,  and  I,  blind,  heedless — 

ERN.  Give  me  just  one  word  of  farewell — just  one,  I  beg. 

TEO.  Good-bye.  Yes.  ...  I  forgive  the  wrong  you  have 
done  us. 

ERN.  That  I  have  done,  I,  Teodora! 

TEO.  Yes. 

ERN.  That  look,  that  tone! 

TEO.  No  more,  Ernesto,  please! 

ERN.  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this? 

TEO.  It  is  as  though  I  had  never  existed.  All  is  over  be- 
tween us. 

ERN.  These  scornful  words! 

TEO.  [Hoarsely,  pointing  to  the  door]  Go! 

ERN.  You  tell  me  to  go — like  that! 

TEO.  My  husband  is  dying  in  there  .  .  .  and  I  am  dying 
here,  too. 

She  totters,  and  has  to  support  herself  by  the  arm  of 
the  chair  so  as  not  to  fall. 

ERN.  {Hurrying  to  help  her}  Teodora! 

TEO.  [Repulsing  him  violently}  Don't  touch  me.  Leave 
me  alone!  [A  pause]  Oh,  my  heart  is  breaking! 

She  tries  to  take  a  few  steps,  her  strength  fails  her,  and 
ERNESTO  again  tries  to  support  her.  She  repulses 
him  and  draws  away. 

ERN.  Why  won't  you  let  me? 

TEO.  [Harshly]  Because  you  defile  me. 

ERN.  You  say — I  defile  you? 

TEO.  Certainly. 

ERN.  [A  pause]  Good  heavens,  what  is  she  saying?  She, 
too!  Impossible!  .  .  .  Death  would  be  better  than  this!  .  .  . 
It's  not  true!  I'm  going  mad!  .  .  .  Say  it's  not  so,  Teodora! 


78  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO     ACT  m 

In  Heaven's  name,  speak  one  word  of  forgiveness,  or  comfort, 
or  pity,  senora!  I  agree  to  leave  you  and  never  see  you  again, 
though  it  breaks  my  heart — it  is  killing  me!  But  I  do  this  on 
the  condition  that  your  affection  and  your  esteem  shall  fol- 
low me  in  my  solitude,  together  with  your  forgiveness  ...  at 
least  your  pity!  I  must  believe  that  you  believe  I  am  faithful 
and  honorable,  that  I  neither  defile  nor  have  defiled,  that  I 
neither  wrong  nor  will  wrong  you!  I  care  little  for  the  world. 
I  scorn  its  curses,  and  its  anger  fills  me  with  profound  con- 
tempt. Even  though  it  hits  me  cruelly,  wantonly;  though 
it  whispers  about  what  I  have  been,  it  can  never  think  as  ill 
of  me  as  I  think  of  it.  But  you — the  purest  being  imaginable 
— you,  for  whom  I  swear  I  would  gladly  give  a  thousand  times 
not  only  my  life  on  earth,  but  my  place  in  heaven, — for  you 
to  think  me  capable  of  treachery!  Oh,  not  that,  Teodora, 
not  that! 

TEO.  You  don't  understand.    We  must  separate,  Ernesto. 

ERN.  It  is  impossible. 

TEO.  At  once.  I  implore  you.  [Pointing  to  the  door] 
Julian  is  suffering. 

ERN.  I  know  it. 

TEO.  Then  we  mustn't  forget  it. 

ERN.  No,  but  I'm  suffering,  too. 

TEO.  You,  Ernesto?    Why? 

ERN.  Because  you  despise  me. 

TEO.  Oh,  I  don't. 

ERN.  You  said  so. 

TEO.  I  lied. 

ERN.  No,  you  meant  it.  So  we  are  not  suffering  equally. 
In  this  eternal  struggle,  in  this  relentless  warfare,  he  suffers 
as  men  suffer  on  earth,  and  I  as  they  do  in  hell. 

TEO.  Good  heavens,  my  brain  is  on  fire! 

ERN.  My  heart  is  breaking. 

TEO.  Stop,  Ernesto.     Have  some  pity. 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  79 

ERN.  That's  all  I  ask. 

TEO.  Pity? 

ERN.  Yes,  pity.  What  is  it  that  you  fear  from  me, — or 
think  of  me? 

TEO.  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  hurt  you. 

ERN.  Hurt!  No.  The  truth.  I  want  the  truth!  I  ask 
it  on  bended  knees,  with  tears  in  my  eyes. 

He  kneels  before  TEODORA  and  takes  her  hand.  At  this 
point  SEVERO  appears  in  the  doorway  of  JULIAN'S 
room  and  stands  there. 

SEV.  [Aside]  The  wretches ! 

TEO.  Don  Severo! 

ERNESTO  leaves  TEODORA  and  goes  to  the  right.  SEVERO 
comes  forward  between  him  and  TEODORA. 

SEV.  [To  ERNESTO,  with  concentrated  fury,  but  in  a  low 
tone,  so  that  JULIAN  may  not  hear]  Since  I  can  find  no  words 
to  express  my  anger  and  my  contempt,  I  shall  have  to  con- 
tent myself  with  saying,  "You  are  a  scoundrel.  Go  at 
once!" 

ERN.  Out  of  respect  to  Teodora  and  to  this  house,  because 
of  him  who  is  suffering  on  that  bed,  I  shall  have  to  content 
myself  with  answering  ...  by  silence. 

SEV.  [Ironically,  thinking  that  he  is  going]  To  be  silent  and 
obey  is  the  part  of  prudence. 

ERN.  You  misunderstood.    I  don't  obey. 

SEV.  You  are  going  to  stay  here? 

ERN.  Provided  that  Teodora  does  not  confirm  your  com- 
mand, I  stay  here.  A  few  minutes  ago  I  was  about  to  leave, 
but  God  or  the  devil  detained  me.  You  came,  you  tried  to 
throw  me  out,  and  at  once,  just  as  though  your  harsh  words 
were  some  devil's  spell,  I  felt  roots  shooting  out  from  the 
soles  of  my  feet  and  taking  firm  hold  in  the  ground. 

SEV.  I'll  try  calling  the  servants  to  see  whether  they  can 
tear  them  out  by  force. 


80      THE  GREAT  GALEOTO  ACT  in 

EBN.  Try. 

He  takes  a  step  toward  SEVERO  with  a  threatening  air. 

TEODOKA  rushes  between  them  and  restrains  him. 
TEO.  Ernesto.  [Then  turning  to  her  uncle,  with  spirit  and 
dignity]  You  forget,  doubtless,  that  in  my  house,  while  my 
husband,  its  master,  is  living,  we,  and  we  alone,  have  the 
right  and  the  authority  to  command.  [To  EKNESTO,  sweetly] 
Not  for  his  sake — but  for  mine — because  I  am  in  trouble. 

ERNESTO    cannot   conceal   his  joy   tliat   TEODORA  is 

defending  him. 

ERN.  Teodora,  do  you  wish  it? 
TEO.  I  ask  this  of  you. 

[ERNESTO  bows  respectfully  and  turns  to  go. 
SEV.  Your  audacity  amazes  and  horrifies  me  as  much — 
no,  far  more  than  Ernesto's.  [He  approaches  TEODORA  with 
a  threatening  look.  ERNESTO,  who  has  taken  several  steps, 
stops;  then,  making  an  effort  to  control  himself,  goes  on]  Do 
you  dare  lift  up  your  head,  unhappy  woman,  and  before 
me,  too!  Bow  your  head  to  the  dust.  [ERNESTO  makes  the 
same  movements  as  before,  but  more  markedly]  Where  did  you, 
poor,  trembling  little  coward,  find  those  spirited  words  to 
defend  him?  Passion  is  eloquent!  [ERNESTO,  now  at  the 
back,  stops]  But  you  forget  that  before  throwing  him  out, 
Severe  knew  enough  to  turn  you  out  of  this  house,  which 
you  have  stained  with  Julian's  blood.  Why  have  you  come 
back? 

He  seizes  her  brutally  by  tlte  arm  and  gradually  gets 

nearer  and  nearer  to  her. 

ERN.  Oh,  I  can't!    No!  [He  rushes  up  to  SEVERO  and 
TEODORA  and  separates  them]  Let  go  of  her,  you  scoundrel! 
SEV.  Again! 
ERN.  Again! 
SEV.  You  come  back! 
ERN.  Since  you  dare  harm  Teodora,  what  can  I  do  but 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  81 

[He  has  lost  all  control  of  himself]  come  back,  come  back  and 
punish  your  insolence,  and  call  you  a  coward  to  your  face? 

SEV.  Me! 

ERN.  Yes! 

TEO.  No! 

ERN.  He  brought  it  on  himself.  I  saw  him  lay  hands  on 
you  in  anger.  On  you — on  you!  Like  this. 

[He  seizes  SEVERO  violently  by  the  arm. 

SEV.  Insolent! 

ERN.  True.  But  I'm  not  going  to  let  go.  Did  you  ever 
have  a  mother?  Yes.  Did  you  love  her  very  much?  Did 
you  respect  her  still  more?  Well,  you  are  to  respect  Teodora 
as  much,  and  you  are  to  humble  yourself  before  the  terrible 
grief  of  this  woman!  Of  this  woman,  purer  and  more  hon- 
orable than  your  mother,  you  hound! 

SEV.  You  dare  say  these  things  to  me? 

ERN.  Yes,  and  I've  not  finished  yet. 

SEV.  You  shall  pay  for  this  with  your  life. 

ERN.  With  my  life.  But  now  . . .  [TEODORA  tries  to  separate 
tfiem,  but  he  puts  her  gently  aside  with  one  hand]  You  probably 
believe  in  a  God.  You  must ...  a  creator  ...  a  future  hope! 
Good!  Well,  just  as  you  bend  your  sluggish  knees  before 
the  altar  of  God  in  heaven,  you  must  bend  them  now  before 
Teodora.  Now,  at  once!  Down!  Into  the  dust! 

TEO.  Oh,  have  pity! 

ERN.  To  the  ground ! 

[He  forces  SEVERO  to  kneel  before  TEODORA. 

TEO.  Stop!    Ernesto! 

SEV.  The  devil! 

ERN.  At  her  feet. 

SEV.  You  dare! 

ERN.  I! 

SEV.  Before  her! 

ERN.  Yes. 


82  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO     ACT  m 

TEO.  Stop!    Silence! 

TEODORA,    terrified,  points    to  JULIAN'S  room.    ER- 
NESTO lets  go  his  prisoner.     SEVERO  rises  and  goes 
back  toward  the  right.    TEODORA  goes  to  the  back, 
toward  ERNESTO.     In  this  way  he  and  she  form  a 
separate  group. 
JUL.  [Without]  Let  me  go. 
MER.  No. 

JUL.  It  is  they.     Come! 
TEO.  [To  ERNESTO]  Go! 
SEV.  [To  ERNESTO]  My  revenge! 
ERN.  I  admit  it. 

At  this  moment  JULIAN  appears,  pale,  haggard,  half- 
dying,  supported  by  MERCEDES. 

JUL.  Together!  Where  are  they  going?  Stop  them! 
They're  running  away  from  me.  Traitors! 

He  tries  to  throw  himself  upon  them,  but  his  strength 

fails  him,  and  he  totters. 
SEV.  [Rushing  up  to  support  him]  No! 
JUL.  Severe,  they  deceived  me  .  .  .  they  lied.    Wretches! 
[As  he  is  talking,  MERCEDES  and  SEVERO  lead  him  over  to  the 
settle]  Over  there!    Look!    Both  of  them — she  and  Ernesto! 
Why  are  they  together? 

"  [•  [Drawing  away  from  each  other]  No! 
K K\.  ) 

JUL.  Why  don't  they  come  here?     Teodora! 

TEO.  [Stretching  out  her  arms,  but  not  going  any  nearer] 
Dear  Julian. 

JUL.  Come  to  me!  [TEODORA  rushes  into  JULIAN'S  arms 
and  he  embraces  her  violently.  A  pause]  Do  you  see?  Now, 
do  you  see?  [To  his  brother]  I  know  they  are  deceiving  me 
and  I  clasp  her  in  my  arms  and  hold  her  there  .  .  .  and  I 
could  kill  her!  .  .  .  And  she  deserves  it! ...  And  I  look  at  her. 
.  .  .  /  look  at  her,  and  I  cannot! 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  83 

TEO.  Julian! 

JUL.  And  that  man?  [Pointing  to  ERNESTO] 

ERN.  Senor — 

JUL.  And  I  loved  him !  Be  still,  and  come  here!  [ERNESTO 
goes  up  to  him.  He  holds  TEODORA]  I  am  still  her  master! 

TEO.  I  am  yours!     I  am  yours! 

JUL.  Don't  pretend!    Don't  lie  to  me. 

MER.  [Trying  to  calm  him]  Please! 

SEV.  Julian! 

JUL.  [To  both]  Hush;  be  still!  [To  TEODORA]  I've  found 
you  out.  I  know  that  you  love  him.  [TEODORA  and  ERNESTO 
try  to  protest,  but  he  will  not  let  them]  Why,  Madrid  knows  it! 
All  Madrid! 

ERN.  No,  father. 

TEO.  No. 

JUL.  They  deny  it;  they  still  deny  it.  Why,  I  have  evi- 
dence. I  feel  it  in  my  very  being.  This  fever  that  is  burn- 
ing me  up  lightens  my  mind  with  its  flame. 

ERN.  These  stories  are  all  the  children  of  the  fever  in  your 
blood,  of  your  deliriums.  Listen,  senor! 

JUL.  You're  going  to  lie  to  me! 

ERN.  [Pointing  to  TEODORA]  She  is  innocent. 

JUL.  I  don't  believe  you. 

ERN.  By  the  memory  of  my  father,  senor — 

JUL.  Don't  profane  his  name  and  his  memory. 

ERN.  By  my  mother's  last  kiss — 

JUL.  Her  last  kiss  is  no  longer  on  your  forehead. 

ERN.  Then  by  anything  you  wish,  dear  father,  I  will  swear 
it,  I  will  swear  it. 

JUL.  No  oaths,  no  lying  words  or  protestations! 

ERN.  Then  what  will  satisfy  you? 

JUL.  Deeds! 

ERN.  What  does  he  want,  Teodora?  What  is  he  asking  us 
to  do? 


84     THE  GREAT  GALEOTO  ACT  in 

TEO.  I  don't  know.  What  shall  we  do?  What  shall  we 
do,  Ernesto? 

JUL.  [Who  la  watching  them  with  feverish  eye*  full  of  in- 
stinctive distrust]  Ah,  you're  planning  deceits  before  my  very 
eyes.  Wretches!  You're  plotting  together.  I  see  you. 

ERN.  You  see  with  your  fever,  not  with  your  eyes. 

JUL.  Yes,  with  my  fever.  My  fever's  a  flame  that  has 
consumed  the  veil  that  you  two  drew  in  front  of  my  eyes,  and 
at  last  I  see.  Why  do  you  look  at  each  other  now?  Why, 
traitors?  Why  do  your  eyes  shine?  Speak,  Ernesto.  It's 
not  the  shining  of  tears.  Come  closer,  closer!  [He  farces 
them  to  come  near,  make  him  bow  his  head,  and  at  last  kneel 
before  him.  JULIAN  now  is  between  TEODORA,  who  is  beside 
him,  and  ERNESTO,  who  is  at  his  feet.  In  this  position  he 
passes  his  hand  over  ERNESTO'S  eyes]  Do  you  see?  It's  not 
tears;  they're  quite  dry. 

ERN.  Forgive  me,  forgive  me! 

JUL.  Why,  if  you  ask  forgiveness,  you  confess  your  sin! 

ERN.  No! 

JUL.  Yes! 

ERN.  It's  not  true. 

JUL.  Then  let  your  eyes  meet  before  me. 

SEV.  Julian! 

MER.  Sefior! 

JUL.  [To  TEODORA  and  ERNESTO]  Perhaps  you're  afraid? 
Don't  you  love  each  other  like  brother  and  sister?  Then 
prove  it.  Let  your  souls  look  out  of  your  wide  pupils,  and 
let  the  rays  of  their  chaste  light  mingle  before  me  so  that 
when  I  look  very  closely  I  may  see  whether  those  rays  are 
light  or  fire.  You,  too,  Teodora!  Come,  you  must!  Do 
it,  both  of  you! 

He  makes  TEODORA  kneel  before  him,  faces  them  near 
together,  and  makes  them  look  at  each  other. 

TEO.  [Drawing  away  with  a  violent  effort]  Ah,  no! 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  85 

ERX.  [Trie*  to  free  himself,  but  JULJAX  hsJdt  him]  I  cannot. 
JCL.  You  love  each  other,  you  love  each  other!     I  saw  it 
dearly!  [To  EJCTESTO]   You  shall  pay  for  this  with  your 
life! 

Em.  Ye*. 

JCL.  With  your  blood! 
Era.  With  every  drop! 
JUL.  BestflL 

TEO.  [Trying  to  calm  him]  Julian! 
JCL,  Do  you  defend  him?    Defend  him? 
TEO.  It's  not  for  his  sake! 
SEV.  By  heaven! 

Juu  iroSevEKo]  Silence!  [7V>  Emrarro]  Unnatural  «on! 
EKX.  Father! 
Jcu  Deceiver!  traitor! 
Era.  No:  father! 

JUL.  Today  I  am  going  to  put  the  brand  of  shame  upon 
your  cheek  with  my  hand! . .  .  later  with  my  sword! 

With  a  supreme  ejfort  he  rises  and  strikes  EK.VEHTO  in 
the  face .     EiorEHTO  yiten  a  terrible  cry  and  yoe*  away 
to  the  left,  altering  hit  face. 
Eow.  Ah! 

SET.  [Painting  to  EKXEHTOJ  A  just  punishment! 
TED.  My  God! 

[Hhe  hides  her  face  in  her  hand*  and  rink*  into  a  chair. 
MEJL.  [To  EKXHSTO,  a*  though  excusing  JUUAV]  It  was 
defanum. 

These  four  cries  are  in  quick  succession,  then  come  a  few 
moments  of  stupefaction.    JULIAJT  stands  looking  at 
EJDTOTO.    MEBCEDBK  omf  SEVEBO  support  him. 
Jci*.  Delirium?    No:  punishment!    Wretch,  what  did  you 
expect? 

Mnu  Let's  go,  let's  go. 
SET.  Come,  Julian. 


86  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO     ACT  m 

JUL.  Yes.    I'm  coming. 

He  walks  painfully  to  his  room,  supported  by  SEVERO 
and  MERCEDES,  but  stops  from  time  to  time  to  look  at 
ERNESTO  and  TEODORA. 

MER.  Quick,  Severe! 

JUL.  Look  at  them,  the  wretches  ...  It  was  justice!  Isn't 
that  true?  Isn't  that  true?  I  think  so. 

SEV.  Julian,  for  my  sake! 

JUL.  You  alone!    You  alone!    You  loved  me. 

[Embracing  him. 

SEV.  I?    Of  course. 

JUL.  [Stops  in  the  doorway  and  looks  at  them  again]  And  she  is 
weeping  for  him,  and  she  doesn't  follow  me!  She  doesn't  even 
look  at  me!  She  doesn't  see  . .  .  that  I'm  dying!  Yes,  dying! 

SEV.  Julian! 

JUL.  Wait,  wait!    Shame  for  shame;  good-bye,  Ernesto. 
JULIAN,  SEVERO,  and  MERCEDES  go  out,  right.    ER- 
NESTO sinks  into  the  chair  by  the  table.    TEODORA 
remains  standing.    A  pause. 

ERN.  [Aside]  What  good  is  loyalty? 

TEO.  What  good  is  innocence? 

ERN.  My  conscience  is  troubled. 

TEO.  Have  mercy,  God,  have  mercy! 

ERN.  Poor  child! 

TEO.  Poor  Ernesto! 

SEV.  [Without,  in  great  anguish]  Brother! 

MER.  Help! 

PEP.  Quick! 

TEO.  Cries  of  grief! 

ERN.  Of  death! 

TEO.  Let's  go  at  once! 

ERN.  Where? 

TEO.  In  there! 

ERN.  [Checking  her]  We  can" 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  87 

TEO.  Why  not?  [Anxiously]  I  want  him  to  live. 
ERN.  And  I,  but  I  can't —  [Pointing  to  JULIAN'S  room] 
TEO.  I  can.  [Rushing  to  the  door] 

SEVEBO  comes  out  a  moment  after  PEPITO,  and  blocks 

TEODORA'S  way. 
SEV.  Where  are  you  going? 
TEO.  [Desperately]  I  want  to  see  him. 
PEP.  It's  impossible. 

SEV.  Don't  let   her   in.     Is   that  woman   in   my   house! 
Quick — put  her  out,  without  pity.     Immediately. 
ERN.  What  is  he  saying? 
TEO.  I  am  going  mad! 

SEV.  Even  if  your  mother  shields  her,  you  must  obey  my 
commands,  son.  If  she  begs, — if  she  implores, — if  she  weeps 
. . .  Let  her  weep.  [With  concentrated  anger]  Get  her  far  away, 
or  I  shall  kill  her. 

TEO.  Are  those  Julian's  orders? 

PEP.  Yes,  Julian's! 

ERN.  Her  husband's?    Impossible! 

TEO.  I  must  see  him! 

SEV.  Well,  you  shall  see  him,  and  then  leave  this  house. 

PEP.  [.4s  though  urishing  to  oppose  him]  Father — ! 

SEV.  Let  me  be! 

TEO.  It  can't  be  true! 

PEP.  It's  terrible. 

TEO.  A  lie! 

SEV.  Come,  Teodora  .  .  .  come  and  see! 

He  seizes  her  by  the  arms,  drags  her  to  the  door  of 

JULIAN'S  room  and  points  inside. 
TEO.  He!    Julian!    My  dear  Julian!    Dead! 

[She  falls,  fainting. 
ERN.  Father! 

He  hides  his  face.    A  pause.    SEVERO  watches  them  in 
anger. 


88  THE    GREAT    GALEOTO     ACT  m 

SEV.  [To  his  son]  Put  her  out! 

PEP.  [Hesitating]  Sefior — ? 

SEV.  I  command  it.     Do  you  hesitate? 

EBN.  Have  some  pity. 

SEV.  Pity.     Yes.    As  she  had  for  him. 

ERN.  Oh,  my  blood  boils! — I'll  leave  Spain. 

SEV.  Very  well. 

ERN.  I'll  die! 

SEV.  Life  is  short. 

ERN.  For  the  last  time — 

SEV.  No. 

ERN.  She's  innocent,  I  tell  you.     I  swear  she  is. 

PEP.  [Trying  to  intercede]  Father — 

SEV.  [Pointing  scornfully  at  ERNESTO]  He  lies. 

ERN.  So  you  turn  me  out  to  sink  or  swim?  Well,  I  won't 
struggle.  I'll  go  with  the  current.  What  she  will  think  of 
the  world,  and  of  the  wrong  you  have  done,  I  can't  guess, 
for  her  lips  are  mute  and  her  mind  is  asleep,  but  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  what  I  think. 

SEV.  It's  useless.  [Starting  to  go  to  TEODORA]  You  can't 
keep  me  from — 

PEP.  [Restraining  him]  Father! 

ERN.  No!  [A  pause]  Let  no  one  come  near  this  woman. 
She  is  mine.  The  world  decreed  it;  I  accept  its  judgment. 
I  carry  her  away  in  my  arms.  Come,  Teodora.  [He  lifts 
her  up]  You  turn  her  out  of  here!  We  obey! 

SEV.  At  last.    Scoundrel! 

PEP.  Rascal! 

ERN.  Yes,  I  am  all  that!  Now  you  are  right.  Now  I 
admit  it!  Do  you  want  passion?  Well,  here  is  passion, 
madness!  Do  you  want  love?  Here  is  love  immeasurable! 
Do  you  want  more?  Then  I'll  give  more!  I'm  not  afraid. 
You  thought  of  the  plot.  I  only  pick  up  my  cue!  Now  tell 
all  about  it,  tell  all  about  it.  Waken  the  echoes  with  this 


ACT  in     THE    GREAT    GALEOTO  89 

fine  bit  of  news!  But  if  any  one  asks  you  who  was  the  in- 
famous accomplice  in  this  infamous  affair,  say  to  him,  "You 
yourself;  though  you  didn't  know  it.  You  and  the  tongues 
of  other  fools!"  Come,  Teodora,  my  mother's  spirit  is  watch- 
ing over  you.  Good-bye.  She  belongs  to  me  now!  And  in 
due  time  may  heaven  judge  between  you  and  me! 

Curtain. 


BENITO  PISREZ-GALDOS 

BENITO  PEREZ-GALDOS,  like  Echegaray,  is  one  of  Spain's 
foremost  writers.  He  is  best  known  as  a  novelist,  though 
his  activities  in  the  field  of  the  drama  during  the  past  twenty- 
five  years  have  placed  him  high  in  the  minds  of  his  country- 
men as  a  dramatist.  He  was  born  in  the  Canary  Islands,  at 
Las  Palmas,  in  1845.  At  an  early  age  he  went  to  Madrid, 
to  study  law,  but  finding  that  the  work  was  unsuited  to  his 
temperament,  he  turned  to  journalism.  He  soon  began  writ- 
ing fiction,  which  was  to  be  his  life-work,  and  produced  a 
series  of  romances — "National  Episodes" — which,  together 
with  a  subsequent  series,  have  made  his  name  celebrated 
throughout  the  civilized  world.  He  did  not  seriously  turn 
to  the  drama  until  comparatively  late  in  his  career. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  THE 
PLAYS   OF   BENITO   PEREZ -GALDOS 

Realidad 1892 

La  loca  de  la  casa 1893 

Gerona 1893 

La  de  San  Quentin 1894 

Los  Condenados 1894 

Voluntad 1895 

DonaPerfecta 1896 

La  Fiera 1896 

Electra 1901 

Alma  y  Vida 1902 

Mariucha 1903 

El  Abuelo 1904 

Barbara 1905 

Amor  y  Ciencia     , 1905 

Casandra 1906 

Pedro  Minio 1908 

Celia  en  los  Infiernos 1908 

Alceste 1914 

El  Tacano  Sal6mon 1916 

Electra,  translated  under  the  same  title,  is  published  in 
The  Drama,  May,  1911;  El  Abuelo  as  The  Grandfather  by 
Elizabeth  Wallace,  in  Poet-Lore,  1911. 

References:  The  Drama,  May,  1911;  Atlantic  Monthly, 
vol.  cii,  p.  358;  Era,  vol.  x,  p.  535;  Critic,  vol.  xxxix,  p.  213, 
and  vol.  xlv,  p.  447;  Barrett  H.  Clark,  The  Continental 
Drama  of  Today  (Henry  Holt  &  Co.);  Revue  des  deux 
Mondes,  Seme  periode,  1906;  Manuel  Bueno,  Teatro  Es- 
panol  contemporaneo  (Madrid,  1909);  L.  Alas,  B.  PeVez- 
Gald6s  (Madrid,  2nd  ed.,  1889);  J.  Martinez  Ruiz  (Azorin), 
Lecturas  Espafiolas  (1912). 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTHs 

(La  de  San  Quentin) 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 
BY    BENITO    PEREZ-GALD6S 


TRANSLATED   BY 
PHILIP    M.   HAYDEN 

Presented  for  the  first  time  in  the  Teatro  de  la  Comedia,  Madrid,  January  27, 1894 


CHARACTERS 

ROSARIO  DE  TRASTAMABA,  Duchess  of  San  Quentin  (Age  27) 

RUFINA  (Age  15) 

LORENZA,  Buendia's  housekeeper 

RAFAELA,  Rosarws  maid 

DON  CESAR  DE  BuENnfA,  Rufina's  father  (Age  55) 

VICTOR  (Age  28) 

DON  Josfe  MANUEL  DE  BUEND!  A,  Don  Cesar's  father  (Age  88) 

MARQUIS  DE  FALFAN  DE  LOS  GODOS  (Age  35) 

CANSECO,  Notary  (Age  50) 

Two  GENTLEMEN 

THREE  LADIES 

The  action  takes  place  in  a  seaport  of  northern  Spain,  desig- 
nated by  the  imaginary  name  of  Ficobriga. 
Time,  the  present.    Summer. 


THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN 


ACT   I 

Room  in  BuENDf A'S  house.  At  the  rear,  on  the  left,  a  large 
door — back-drop  beyond — through  which  enter  those  who 
come  from  outside  or  from  the  garden,  and  a  large  window 
through  which  trees  are  seen.  Two  doors  at  the  right,  and 
one  large  one  at  the  left,  leading  to  the  dining-room.  Fur- 
nishings of  black  walnut,  a  desk  with  drawers,  chests, 
all  neat  and  clean.  Religious  pictures,  and  two  or  three 
of  ships  and  steamers;  on  the  back  wall  a  large  painting  of 
the  ship  "Rufina."  The  setting  should  give  the  impression 
of  a  pleasant  village  home,  indicating  comfort,  neatness, 
and  simple  habits.  Table  at  the  right;  small  table  at  left. 
Daylight.  "Right"  and  "left"  refer  to  the  spectator. 

DON  JOSE,  seated,  in  the  arm-chair  near  the  table.  At  his  side, 
RUFINA.  At  the  left,  by  the  small  table,  DON  CESAR  and 
a  LADY.  At  the  right,  by  the  table,  two  LADIES,  seated, 
and  two  GENTLEMEN,  standing.  In  the  center  of  the  stage, 
CANSECO,  standing.  LOBENZA  is  passing  in  and  out, 
serving  sherry.  On  each  table,  bottles  and  glasses,  and  a 
plate  of  cakes. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  CANSECO  is  delivering  a  speech.  He  has 
just  finished  a  sentence  which  has  drawn  applause  and 
cries  of  "Bravo"  from  all  those  on  the  stage.  With  glass 
in  hand,  he  waits  for  silence,  and  continues. 

CANSECO.  I  conclude,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  by  proposing 
the  health  of  our  venerable  patriarch,  the  pride  and  glory  of 

95 


*6     THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

this  fair  city  of  commerce  and  shipping;  that  distinguished 
landed  proprietor,  manufacturer  and  ship-owner,  Don  Jos6 
Manuel  de  Buendfa,  who  today  does  us  the  honor  of  com- 
pleting his  eighty-eighth  year — I  mean — who  today  com- 
pletes .  .  .  and  has  so  kindly  invited  us  ...  in  short .  .  . 

[Confused. 

ALL.  Good!  Good!    Goon! 

CANSECO.  Let  us  drink  also  to  the  health  of  his  noble  son, 
the  gallant  Don  Ce"sar  de  Buendfa.  [Laughter. 

DON  CESAR.  [Mocking]  Gallant! 

CANSECO.  I  mean,  of  the  noble  Don  Ce"sar,  heir  to  the  enor- 
mous name  and  brilliant  fortune,  real  and  personal,  of  the 
patriarch  whose  anniversary  we  celebrate  today.  And 
finally,  I  drink  also  to  his  grandson  .  .  .  [Murmurs  of  surprise. 
DON  JOSE  and  DON  CESAR  start.  Aside]  Ah!  ...  A  slip  of 
the  tongue.  [Puts  his  hand  to  his  mouth. 

FIRST  LADY.  [Aside]  That  was  a  slip! 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside]  Bungler! 

CANSECO.  [Trying  to  cover  his  mistake  with  coughs  and  ges- 
tures, and  amending]  To  his  ...  I  mean  ...  to  his  grand- 
daughter, [Turning  to  RUFINA]  that  lovely  flower,  the  delight 
of  the  whole  city  .  .  . 

RUFINA.  [Laughing]  Oh,  heavens!  .  .  .  the  whole  city! 

CANSECO.  Of  the  family,  of  ...  of  ...  [Hesitating]  In  short, 
long  life  to  Don  Jos6,  and  likewise  to  Don  Ce'sar  and  little 
Rufina,  for  the  greater  glory  of  this  fair  city,  celebrated 
throughout  the  world  for  its  mines  and  fisheries,  and,  paren- 
thetically, for  its  incomparable  pastries;  of  this  city,  I  say, 
in  which  I  have  the  honor  to  serve  as  notary,  and  in  that 
capacity  I  can  bear  witness  to  the  sentiment  of  the  people, 
and  I  take  the  liberty  of  indicating  it  to  Senor  de  Buendfa  in 
the  form  of  a  warm  embrace. 

Embraces  him.    LORENZA  passes  cakes  to  the  guests. 
All  eat  and  drink.    Laughter  and  applause. 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN     97 

DON  JOSE.  Thanks,  thanks,  my  dear  Canseco. 

THIRD  LADY.  [The  one  beside  DON  CESAR]  What  a  wonder- 
ful old  man! 

FIRST  LADY.  His  presence  is  a  benediction. 

SECOND  LADY.  And  just  as  strong  as  ever,  Don  Jos6? 

DON  JOSE.  Like  an  old  oak.  No  wind  can  overthrow  me, 
no  lightning  blast  me.  Tell  that  to  those  who  envy  my  age. 
My  sight  is  keen,  my  legs  still  firm,  j»nd  my  mind  as  clear 
as  day.  In  fact,  there  are  only  two  of  us  in  the  world :  myself 
and  Gladstone. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN.  Wonderful! 

CANSECO.  What  a  lesson,  gentlemen,  what  an  example! 
At  eighty -eight  years  of  age,  he  directs  his  immense  business 
himself,  and  brings  to  everything  admirable  order  and  system. 
A  marvelous  executive,  far-sighted,  careful  of  every  detail, 
from  the  greatest  to  the  smallest. 

DON  JOSE.  [Modestly]  Oh,  you  exaggerate. 

RUFINA.  Not  a  bit.  My  grandfather  handles  a  big  law- 
suit, with  lots  of  papers,  just  the  same  as  he  decides  the  feed 
that  we  are  to  give  the  hens. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN.  And  so  this  house  is  full  of  prosperity. 

DON  JOSE.  Call  it  order,  authority.  All  who  live  here 
under  the  rule  of  this  old  duffer,  from  my  dear  son  to  the 
last  one  of  my  servants,  obey  blindly  the  direction  of  my 
will.  No  one  acts  or  thinks  without  me.  I  do  the  thinking 
for  everybody. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN.  Just  hear  that! 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN.  There's  a  man  for  you! 

CANSECO.  Born  of  very  humble  parents.  .  .  .  Parenthet- 
ically, I  know  that  he's  not  ashamed  of  it.  ... 

DON  JOSE.  Certainly  not. 

CANSECO.  And  from  his  earliest  years,  he  showed  an  apti- 
tude for  saving. 

DON  JOSE.  To  be  sure. 


CANSECO.  And  soon  after  his  marriage  he  began  to  be  a 
perfect  ant  for  industry.  [Laughter. 

DON  JOSE.  Don't  laugh.    The  idea  is  correct. 

DON  CESAR.  But  the  form  is  a  little  . . . 

CANSECO.  In  short,  in  a  long  and  industrious  life  he  has 
come  to  be  the;  thief  citizen  of  Fic6briga.  He  is  allied 
with  some  of  the  most  noble  and  illustrious  families  of 
Castile. 

FIRST  LADY.  Don  Jose",  are  you  related  to  the  family  of 
San  Quentin? 

DON  JOSE.  Yes,  madam,  by  the  marriage  of  my  sister 
Demetria  to  a  poor  cadet  of  the  house  of  Trastamara. 

SECOND  LADY.  And  the  present  Duchess  Rosario? 

DON  JOSE.  My  niece,  a  few  times  removed. 

CANSECO.  You  have  it  all:  nobility  on  one  side,  and  on 
the  other,  or  better,  on  all  four  sides,  boundless  wealth. 
Yours  are  the  best  country  and  city  properties  in  the  district; 
yours  the  two  iron  mines  .  .  .  two  mines,  gentlemen,  and  I 
might  better  say  three  [To  DON  JOSE]  because  the  cannery 
that  you  own  with  Rosie  the  Fishwife  is  a  mine,  and  a  most 
productive  one.  i 

DON  JOSE.    Not  bad. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN.  Add  to  that  the  tack  factory. 

CANSECO.  And  the  two  steamers  that  take  the  ore  to 
Belgium.  And  then  the  two  sailing-ships.  .  .  . 

RUFINA.  [Quickly]  Three. 

CANSECO.  That's  so.  I  was  not  counting  the  "Rufina," 
which  doesn't  go  out. 

RUFINA.  She  does  go  out.  There  isn't  a  better  ship  on  the 
sea. 

CANSECO.  [Oratorically]  One  more  glass,  the  last  one,  in 
honor  of  this  wonderful  triumph  of  industry,  gentlemen,  of 
administration,  of  the  sacred  principle  of  thrift.  .  .  .  Oh, 
glorious  example  of  the  age  of  iron,  of  the  age  of  legal 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN     99 

paper,  of  the  age  of  public  confidence,  which  like  .  .  .  which 
like  the  .  .   .  [Confused. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN.  The  pipe  is  plugged.  [All  laugh. 

CANSECO.  Of  the  golden  age  of  our  literature,  I  mean  of 
our  political  economy,  of  electoral  light.  [Loud  laughter]  No,  of 
electric  light  .  .  .  and  of  vapor,  that  is  to  say,  of  steam  ...  of 
the  locomotive  .  .  .  Ouf!  I  have  done.  [Applause. 

DON  CESAR.  [Rising]  Who  is  that  coming? 

RUFINA.  [Looking  through  tlie  window  at  the  back]  There's  a 
handsome  horse  at  the  big  gate. 

DON  JOSE.  A  horse,  you  said?  It  must  be  the  Marquis  de 
Falfan  de  los  Godos. 

RUFINA.  [Looking  out]  Himself. 

Enter  the  MARQUIS  DE  FALFAN  DE  LOS  GODOS,  in  an 
English  riding-costume,  simple,  but  elegant. 

MARQUIS.  Many  happy  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  My  dear  Marquis!     This  is  kind  of  you  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside.  Vexed]  What  brings  him  here?  The 
good-for-nothing  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  I  was  just  riding  down  from  Las  Caldas  to 
Ficobriga,  and  as  I  passed  through  the  village  toward  the 
bathing-beach,  I  noticed  a  crowd  of  visitors  at  the  door  of 
this  honored  house.  I  inquired;  they  told  me  that  today  is 
the  patriarch's  birthday,  and  I  hasten  to  add  my  congratu- 
lations to  those  of  the  whole  town. 

DON  JOSE.  [Taking  his  hand]  Thanks. 

MARQUIS.  And  so  it  is  eighty? 

DON  JOSE.  Eighty-eight.     Don't  rob  me  of  the  little  ones. 

MARQUIS.  We  shan't  last  so  long.  [To  DON  CESAR]  You 
especially. 

DON  CESAR.  Nor  you  either. 

MARQUIS.  My  health  is  good. 

DON  CESAR.  What  can  I  do  to  be  able  to  say  the  same? 
Ride  horseback? 


100    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT'I 

MARQUIS.  No.  Have  less  money  [In  a  low  tone]  and  fewer 
vices. 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside  to  MARQUIS]  Your  lordship  is  pleased 
to  jest. 

MARQUIS.  It's  not  a  joke.    It's  a  fact. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN.  Marquis,  is  there  any  excitement  at 
Las  Caldas? 

MARQUIS.  So-so. 

DON  JOSE.  Aren't  you  coming  down  for  the  bathing  this 
year? 

MARQUIS.  Oh,  yes.  My  beloved  ocean!  Witliin  a  couple 
of  weeks  I  shall  be  established. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN.  Did  you  come  with  Ivauhoe? 

MARQUIS.  No,  sir.     With  Desdemona. 

THIRD  LADY.  [Surprised]  Who's  she? 

DON  CESAR.  It's  a  mare. 

THIRD  LADY.  Oh. 

DON  JOSE.  [With  interest]  Tell  me,  did  you  leave  Las  Cal- 
das about  ten? 

MARQUIS.  I  know  why  you  ask. 

DON  JOSE.  Has  the  Duchess  come? 

MAKQUIS.  Rosario?  Yes,  sir.  She  told  me  she  would 
come  over  at  once,  in  the  same  carriage  that  brought  her 
from  the  station. 

DON  JOSE.  And  is  she  well? 

MARQUIS.  As  fine  and  handsome  as  ever.  Misfortune 
seems  to  have  no  effect  on  her.  She  charged  me  to  tell  you  . . . 
I've  forgotten  already. 

DON  JOSE.  She  will  tell  me.  Won't  you  take  a  glass  of 
wine? 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  with  pleasure.  [RuriNA  serves  him. 

DON  JOSE.  And  try  the  cakes,  which  have  made  Fic6briga 
famous. 

MARQUIS.  They  are  delicious.    I  like  them  immensely. 


ACT  i   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    101 

RUFINA.  Home-made. 

MARQUIS.  Ah! 

CANSECO.  [Taking  another  cake]  And   much  richer   than 
those  you  buy. 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  prepare  to  leave.     RUFINA 
and  DON  CESAR  escort  them. 

DON  JOSE.  Going  already? 

FIRST  LADY.  Many  happy  returns,  once  more. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN.    I  repeat . . . 

SECOND  LADY.  My  dear  Don  Jose" . . .  Marquis  . . . 

[The  MARQUIS  makes  a  low  bow. 

DON  JOSE.  We  will  come  out  to  see  you  off.  [To  the  MAR- 
QUIS] You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure. 

THIRD  LADY.  Don't  trouble. 

Exeunt  all  but  CANSECO  and  the  MARQUIS.     The  former 
takes  another  cake. 

MARQUIS.  Excuse  me,  sir.    Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing 
the  doctor  of  the  town? 

CANSECO.  No,  sir.    Canseco,  notary,  at  your  service. 

MARQUIS.  Ah,  yes,  I  remember.     I  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  .  .  .  [Trying  to  recall] 

CANSECO.  Yes,  three  years  ago,  when  we  drew  up  that 
note  ...  for  the  loan  which  Don  Cesar  made  you. 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  yes.    You  will  excuse  me  if  I  venture  to  ask 
you  a  question.   If  my  curiosity  does  not  seem  impertinent. . . . 

CANSECO.  Oh,  no,  Marquis. 

MARQUIS.  Do  you  know  this  family  well? 

CANSECO.  Intimately.    I  respect  the  family  very  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  And  so  do  I.    I  have  great  respect  for  the  old 
gentleman.  .  .  .  But  as  for  his  son  .  .  . 

CANSECO.  Well,  Don  Cesar  is  ... 

MARQUIS.  Is  what? 

CANSECO.  A  very  handsome  man. 

MARQUIS.  The  biggest  rascal  God  ever  made  ...  an  ex- 


102    THE  DUCHESS  OP  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

ample  that  He  must  have  put  into  the  world  to  make  us 
wonder  at  the  infinite  variety  of  His  creative  power,  for  other- 
wise .  .  .  Come,  confess,  Sefior  Canseco,  that  our  limited 
intelligence  is  incapable  of  grasping  the  reason  for  the 
existence  of  certain  noxious  and  venomous  creatures. 

CANSECO.  For  example,  mosquitoes,  and  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  And  so  when  I  get  up  in  the  morning,  or  in  the 
evening,  in  the  short  prayer  that  I  address  to  the  sovereign 
power  that  rules  us,  I  always  conclude  by  saying:  "O  Lord, 
I  still  don't  see  the  reason  for  the  existence  of  Don  C6sar  de 
Buendia." 

CANSECO.  [Aside.    Slyly]  He  owes  him  money. 

MARQUIS.  And  .  .  .  tell  me,  if  I  am  not  too  inquisitive: 
This  immense  fortune  acquired  by  the  two  Buendfas — with- 
out discussing  the  why  and  the  how  of  its  acquisition — will 
this  immense  fortune  pass  entire  to  the  granddaughter,  the 
lovely  Rufina? 

CANSECO.  Entire?    No.    Half,  as  I  understand  it. 

MARQUIS.  [Understanding]  Ah! 

CANSECO.  And  parenthetically,  Marquis,  isn't  it  a  pity  that 
that  girl,  in  whom  I  see  an  excellent  match  for  either  of  my 
sons,  should  have  taken  the  determination  to  enter  the  church? 

MARQUIS.  Parenthetically,  it  seems  to  me  madness.  .  .  . 
You  said  half.  Well,  here  is  my  question. 

CANSECO.  What? 

MARQUIS.  I  am  not  indiscreet? 

CANSECO.  No,  indeed. 

MARQUIS  [Fills  two  glasses]  Is  it  true  that  .  .  .  ?  [Hands  a 
glass  to  CANSECO]  Parenthetically,  my  dear  Canseco  ...  Is  it 
true  that  Don  Ce'sar  has  a  natural  son? 

CANSECO.  [Glass  in  hand,  like  the  MARQUIS,  without  drink- 
ing] Yes. 

MARQUIS.  Is  it  true  that  this  natural  son,  the  child  of  an 
Italian  woman  named  Sarah,  has  been  here? 


ACT  i   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    103 

CANSECO.  For  the  last  four  months. 

MARQUIS.  Has  his  father  legitimized  him? 

CANSECO.  Not  yet. 

MARQUIS.  Then  he  intends  to  do  so? 

CANSECO.  Yes,  sir,  for  only  today  he  told  me  to  prepare 
the  necessary  papers. 

MARQUIS.  Good,  good.  [They  drink. 

CANSECO.  He's  a  handsome  lad,  but  he  has  the  devil  in 
him.  Brought  up  in  foreign  parts,  he  has  a  head  full  of 
radical,  revolutionary,  and  socialistic  ideas.  By  the  grand- 
father's decree,  they  have  put  him  to  work  to  reform  him, 
at  hard  labor,  with  no  rest  or  let-up. 

MARQUIS.  Here? 

CANSECO.  He  lives  at  the  tack  factory,  and  works  there 
from  morning  to  night,  except  when  they  put  him  on  repair 
jobs  here,  or  on  the  ships,  or  in  the  warehouses  .  .  .  for  paren- 
thetically, he  is  a  great  mechanic,  he  can  do  anything.  In- 
deed, as  for  talent  and  ability,  I  assure  you,  Victor  is  a  re- 
markable man. 

MARQUIS.  [Calculating]  He  must  be  ...  twenty-eight 
years  old. 

CANSECO.  About  that.  They  have  put  him  in  overalls, 
like  a  slave.  And  in  fact,  such  wild  ideas,  such  a  violent 
temperament,  deserve  a  harsh  treatment  for  education's  sake, 
Marquis.  They  hope  to  tame  him,  and  parenthetically,  I 
believe  they  will  tame  him. 

MARQUIS.  Good,  good.  A  thousand  thanks,  my  friend, 
for  having  satisfied  my  curiosity — idle  curiosity,  since  I  have 
no  reason  .  .  . 

Enter  DON  CESAR. 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside]  That  fool  still  here! 

MARQUIS.  Ah,  Don  C6sar!  It  was  not  only  to  congratu- 
late Don  Jose1  that  I  stopped  here,  but  also  to  have  a  few 
words  with  you. 


104   THE  DUCHESS  OP  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

DON  CESAR.  I  can  guess  . . . 

CANSECO.  [Moves  away  to  the  right  and  fills  another  glass] 
He  wants  another  extension.  That  makes  six. 

MAKQUIS.  No  doubt  you  think  that  I  have  come  to  ask  for 
another  extension.  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  Naturally.  [With  feigned  regret]  And  the 
worst  of  it  is,  Marquis,  that  with  the  greatest  regret,  I  shall 
be  obliged  to  refuse  it. 

MABQUIS.  There  is  no  occasion  for  regret.  I  have  come  to 
inform  the  man  who  has  been  my  nightmare  for  ten  years 
that .  .  .  [Puts  his  liand  in  His  pocket]  Here  is  a  telegram  from 
my  attorney,  that  I  received  last  night.  Read  it.  [Shows  it 
to  him]  Yesterday  the  two  notes  were  cancelled. 

DON  CESAR.  The  big  one,  too?  The  one  for  ten  thousand 
and  .  .  .  ? 

MABQUIS.  That,  and  the  other,  and  the  whole  business. 

CANSECO.  [.4*ttfe]  He  has  paid  up!  Let  us  celebrate  the 
miracle  with  another  glass,  and  a  cake  to  go  with  it. 

[He  eats  and  drinks. 

DON  CESAR.  This  is  miraculous!  Did  you  win  it  in  the 
lottery? 

MARQUIS.  I  have  had  a  legacy.  You  are  glad  to  get  your 
money,  and  I  am  bursting  with  joy  to  find  myself  free  of  the 
humiliating  chain  that  a  debt  of  long  standing  becomes,  es- 
pecially when  the  creditor  is  morally — insufferable. 

DON  CESAR.  [With  false  humility]  You  don't  mean  that 
for  me. 

MARQUIS.  [Ironically,  but  with  formal  courtesy]  Oh,  no  ... 
Thank  heaven,  I  am  free  now  to  talk  about  the  fabulous 
multiplication  of  the  interest,  which  in  the  last  four  years 
has  tripled  the  sum  that  I  owed  to  your  generosity.  That  is 
the  regular  thing,  I  suppose? 

DON  CESAR.  [Affecting  fieartiness]  My  dear  fellow,  it  was 
the  rate  agreed  upon. 


ACT  i   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    105 

MARQUIS.  Oh,  yes,  agreed  upon.  Enough.  Out  of  defer- 
ence to  you,  and  knowing  business  and  human  nature  as  I  do, 
I  will  not  be  so  vulgar  as  to  call  you  a  usurer,  a  Jew,  a  monster 
of  avarice,  as  others  do,  .  .  .  unjustly,  no  doubt. 

DON  CESAR.  [Touched,  but  concealing  his  anger  under  a 
false  courtesy]  Those  who  say  that  are  the  same  ones  who  pre- 
sume to  call  you  a  worthless  scamp.  So  unjust! 

MARQUIS.  [Patting  his  shoulder]  We  despise  slanderers, 
don't  we?  Ah,  my  dear  Don  C6sar,  what  a  relief  it  is  to  pay! 
[Drawing  a  deep  breath]  I  am  free,  free!  I  have  struck  off  at 
last  the  degrading  shackles.  When  a  man  pays  his  debts,  my 
friend,  he  recovers  the  control  of  his  faculties.  The  trials, 
the  deep  shame,  the  thousand  devices  that  insolvency  in- 
volves change  our  character.  A  debtor  is  a  different  man. . . . 
I  don't  know  whether  you  understand  me. 

DON  CESAR.  And  so,  on  fulfilling  your  obligations,  you 
become  again  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  What  I  always  should  have  been,  what  I  am  in 
reality. 

DON  CESAR.  [As  if  trying  to  close  the  conversation]  I  am 
very  glad.  And  so  our  account  is  closed. 

MARQUIS.  Closed? 

DON  CESAR.  So  far  as  I  know. 

MARQUIS.  Think  it  over.  We  may  have  some  old  score 
to  settle. 

DON  CESAR.  Score?    With  you?    There  is  nothing. 

MARQUIS.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  money. 

DON  CESAR.  Of  what,  then?  Ah!  Some  supposed  of- 
fense. .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  Just  so. 

CANSECO.  [Aside]  This  looks  bad. 

DON  CESAR.  Well,  if  I  have  offended  you — unconsciously, 
no  doubt — why  didn't  you  demand  an  explanation  at  the  time? 

MARQUIS.  Because  the  unhappy  debtor,  if  I  must  repeat 


106    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

it,  cannot  stand  up  to  the  arbiter  of  his  life  and  of  all  his  acts. 
A  feeling  of  delicacy,  second  nature  to  well-bred  men,  inter- 
venes, and  the  man  is  bound  hand  and  foot,  like  a  criminal. 
A  loan  of  money  works  a  tremendous  revolution  in  the  normal 
order  of  human  feelings. 

CANSECO.  [Aside]  The  aristocrat  is  getting  metaphysical ! 

DON  CESAR.  I  don't  understand  a  word,  Marquis.  Ah! 
About  some  woman,  perhaps. 

MARQUIS.  I  am  addressing  the  greatest  lady-killer  and 
heart-breaker  in  the  world. 

DON  CESAR.  That  was  long  ago.  Bah!  After  all  these 
years  you  sound  that  old  note  again!  [Laughs]  The  good 
Marquis  is  digging  up  antiquities. 

MARQUIS.  I  like  to  revive  old  memories. 

DON  CESAR.  I  don't.  I  am  a  practical  man.  The  past  is 
dead.  And  the  present,  my  noble  friend,  is  sad  enough  for 
me.  [Sitting  down,  sad  and  weak]  I  am  very  ill. 

MARQUIS.  Really? 

DON  CESAR.  [Dejectedly]  Seriously  ill,  as  good  as  done 
for. 

MARQUIS.  That  would  be  a  pity.  [Putting  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder]  Poor  fellow!  Avarice  and  lust  will  undermine  the 
strongest  constitution. 

DON  CESAR.  But,  after  all,  what  offense  is  this?  I  don't 
remember  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  There  is  no  haste.  When  you  recover  your 
health,  we  will  review  different  periods  of  cur  lives,  and  in 
some  of  them  we  shall  find  certain  acts  which  had  no  excuse 
— and  needed  one. 

DON  CESAR.  [Remembering,  and  trying  to  palliate  the  fact] 
Ah!  Do  you  attach  much  importance  to  an  innocent  jest? 

MARQUIS.  [Seriously,  repressing  his  wrath}  Jests,  eh?  Well, 
now  that  I  am  free,  don't  be  surprised  if  I  also  . . .  And  beware 
of  mine! 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    107 

DON  CESAR.  Or  perhaps  you  refer  to  occurrences,  or  acci- 
dents, due  to  a  lamentable  mistake,  to  a  misunderstanding  . . . 

MARQUIS.  [With  emphasis]  I,  too,  can  make  lamentable 
mistakes  when  I  want  to  make  trouble.  .  .  .  Stabs  in  the  back 
that  I  have  learned  from  you. 

CANSECO.  [Aside.     Confused]  Whj,  what  does  this  mean? 

DON  JOSE.  [Entering,  weary]  They've  gone.  .  .  .  Thank 
heaven! 

MARQUIS.  I  must  be  off,  too.  [Shaking  hands  with  DON 
JOSE]  Good-day,  sir. 

DON  JOSE.  My  good  friend  .  .  .  Cesar,  go  with  him.  If 
you  meet  Rosario  on  the  way,  tell  her  that  I  am  waiting  for 
her  eagerly.  Good-bye. 

MARQUIS.  I  will  do  so.  [Bowing  to  CANSECO]  SenorCanseco. 

RUFINA.  [Entering  quickly]  Here  is  Don  Buenaventura  de 
Lantigua. 

DON  JOSE.  More  callers?  [To  DON  CESAR]  You  receive 
him.  Tell  him  I'm  tired  out.  And  then  come  back.  I  want 
to  speak  with  you. 

DON  CESAR  [In  disgust]  Confound  the  callers! 

Exeunt  the  MARQUIS  and  DON  CESAR  at  the  back. 
Enter  LORENZA,  who  gathers  up  the  glasses,  etc.,  aided 
by  RUFINA. 

CANSECO.  I  also  will  bid  you  good-day.  [Embraces  DON 
JQSE]  Of  course  you're  coming  to  the  tax-payers'  meeting  at 
the  town  hall? 

DON  JOSE.  [Sitting  down,  tired]  I'll  be  there.  Good-bye. 
[Exit  CANSECO]  How  much  sherry  did  they  drink? 

LORENZA.  Eleven  bottles. 

DON  JOSE.  A  half-dozen  would  have  been  enough. 

LORENZA.  And  see  what's  left  of  the  seven  pounds  of  cakes 
we  made  today. 

DON  JOSE.  In  these  times,  it  is  pretty  evident  .  .  .  [Re- 
membering] Ah!  Before  I  forget  it ...  [Takes  out  several  keys 


108    THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

and  gives  one  to  LORENZA]  Get  out  three  bottles  of  claret  for 
dinner  today. 

LORENZA.  Very  well.  And  shall  I  add  another  meat 
course? 

DON  JOSE.  No. 

LORENZA.  Since  you  told  me  that  you  would  perhaps  have 
a  guest  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  [Surprised]  Whom? 

RUFINA.  Yes,  grandfather:   the  Duchess  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  Oh,  yes.  But  I  don't  know  whether  she  will 
dine  with  us.  Anyway,  kill  a  hen. 

RTIFINA.  The  tufted  one? 

DON  JOSE.  No;  keep  the  tufted  one;  she's  the  best.  Kill 
the  speckled  one.  Lorenza,  how  many  eggs  did  they  lay 
yesterday? 

LORENZA.  [Preparing  to  go]  Nine. 

DON  JOSE.  That's  not  much.  Doesn't  pay  for  the  corn 
they  eat. 

LORENZA.  The  poor  things!  If  they  could  figure  like  you, 
they'd  fit  their  production  to  the  food  they  eat.  But  God 
hasn't  made  the  fowls  so  ...  mathematical. 

[Exit  with  the  crockery. 

DON  JOSE.  And  on  the  other  hand  He  has  made  you  imper- 
tinent. [To  RUFINA]  Your  accounts  for  today. 

RUFINA.  [Getting  out  paper  and  pencil]  Here  they  are. 
Meat,  seven-and-a-half.  Fish,  five  .  .  .  [Writes. 

DON  JOSE.  Put  it  all  down,  and  tonight  enter  it  in  the 
book.  I  want  the  accounts  and  expenses  of  the  house  kept 
up  to  the  hour  of  my  death.  Order  is  heaven's  first  law,  and 
regularity  is  my  joy.  Blessed  be  figures,  which  give  peace 
and  joy  to  a  long  life! 

RUFINA.  I  must  add  bird-seed  for  the  canaries,  six.  And 
bran  for  the  hens.  I  bought  them  both  at  wholesale  to  get  a 
better  price, 


ACT  i   THE  DUCHESS  OP  SAN  QUENTIN    100 

DON  JOSE.  [With  enthusiasm]  You  are  an  angel.  The  ad- 
ministering angel.  No  wonder  God  wants  you  for  Himself. 
Are  you  going  to  church  now? 

RUFINA.  [Putting  away  her  papers]  I  can't  go  yet.  There 
are  more  people  coming. 

DON  JOSE.  That's  so. 

RUFINA.  The  captain  and  crew  of  the  "Rufina."  Didn't 
you  know?  They  are  bringing  you  a  pastry  ship,  with  candy 
masts,  and  a  cargo  of  sweetmeats. 

DON  JOSE.  [Pleased]  Ha,  ha!  That  will  be  fine!  How 
many  presents  today!  The  capons  from  the  mayor,  beauties! 

RUFINA.  Yes,  and  the  smoked  tongue  from  Don  Cosme. 

DON  JOSE.  And  the  ham  from  the  priest. 

LORENZA.  [Hastening  in  from  the  back]  Sefior,  the  coast- 
guard men  are  bringing  a  dozen  cocoanuts;  and  the  tenant 
of  La  Juncosa  is  here  with  a  lot  of  lard  and  sausage,  and  no 
end  of  dainties. 

RUFINA.  [With  joy]  I'll  go  and  see  him. 

DON  JOSE.  Give  them  a  glass  of  wine. 

Exeunt  RUFINA  and  LORENZA.    Enter  DON  CESAR. 

DON  JOSE.  [Indicating  the  nearest  seat]  I  panted  to  see  you 
alone. 

DON  CESAR.  [Sitting  down  wearily]  Plague  take  the  callers ! 

DON  JOSE.  We  have  things  to  talk  over. 

DON  CESAR.  Go  ahead. 

DON  JOSE.  You  are  fifty-five  years  old. 

DON  CESAR.  [Sighs]  Yes,  sir.     What  of  it? 

DON  JOSE.  You're  a  mere  boy. 

DON  CESAR.  Compared  with  you.  .  .  .  But  if  we  consider 
health,  my  father  is  the  boy,  and  I  the  old  man.  If  you  only 
knew  how  badly  I  have  felt  for  the  last  few  days ! 

[Puts  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  in  his  hands. 

DON  JOSE.  Come,  come,  you  imagine  it.  C6sar,  be  a  man. 
If  you're  going  to  get  married,  there's  no  time  to  waste. 


110   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

DON  CESAR.  [Without  raising  his  head]  Perhaps  you  think 
a  second  marriage  is  gaining  time! 

DON  JOSE.  In  this  case  it  is.  I  tell  you  again  that  the  in- 
terests of  the  firm  require  your  marriage  to  Rosita  Moreno. 
A  worthy  widow,  if  they  do  call  her  the  Fishwife. 

DON  CESAR.  And  you  insist  on  my  walking  into  her  net. 

DON  JOSE.  Precisely.  I  have  weighty  reasons  for  desiring 
this  marriage.  It  is  your  duty  to  raise  a  family,  to  insure  the 
dynasty,  so  to  speak. 

DON  CESAR.  I  have  a  daughter. 

DON  JOSE.  [Quickly]  But  Rufina  wants  to  be  a  nun. 

DON  CESAR.  I  have  a  son. 

DON  JOSE.  A  natural  son,  not  yet  legitimized. 

DON  CESAR.  I  am  going  to  legitimize  him.  I  have  told 
Canseco  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  Yes,  but  ...  I  have  forbidden  the  adoption 
until  we  have  assured  ourselves  that  Victor  deserves  to  belong 
to  our  family.  In  view  of  the  bad  reputation  he  brought 
from  abroad,  where  he  was  educated,  and  from  Madrid,  where 
he  had  been  living  for  some  months,  I  decided,  and  you 
agreed  to  it,  that  we  should  observe  him  for  a  while  under  a 
reformatory  system.  Now  if  it  turns  out  to  be  impossible  . .  . 

DON  CESAR.  Victor  has  ability. 

DON  JOSE.  If  he  had  some  sense  along  with  his  ability  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  I  hope  that  the  severity  with  which  we  treat 
him  will  straighten  him  out.  You  see  that  I  am  inexorable. 
I  keep  forever  at  him. 

DON  JOSE.  That's  all  very  well;  but  his  radical  ideas  are 
so  fixed  in  his  mind  that  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  The  result  of  bad  company  and  perverted 
books.  I  tell  you,  books  are  the  curse  of  humanity. 

DON  JOSE.  Don't  exaggerate.     There  are  good  books. 

DON  CESAR.  But  in  order  to  find  out  which  are  good  and 
which  are  not,  you  have  to  read  them  all,  and  that's  impos- 


ACT  i   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    111 

sible;  and  so  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  forbid  reading  entirely. 
.  .  .  Anyway,  I  am  trying  to  form  Victor  to  our  own  image 
and  likeness,  before  admitting  him  legally  into  the  family.  .  .  . 
And  how  that  rascal  can  work.  Everything  is  easy  for  him. 
Such  intelligence,  quickness,  skill! 

DON  JOSE.  But  those  qualities  alone  mean  little.  The 
workman  who  hasn't  the  gift  of  silence  along  with  his  ability 
is  good  for  nothing. 

DON  CESAR.  For  that  reason  I  have  forbidden  him  to 
speak  to  the  laborers  except  to  say  "Good-morning,"  "Yes," 
and  "No."  I  am  afraid  he  may  sow  some  seed  of  insubordina- 
tion in  the  shops.  [DoN  JOSE  begins  to  nod]  To  tell  the  truth, 
he  bewitches  me,  in  spite  of  myself,  hard  and  dry  as  I  am. 
And  although  his  ideas  about  property,  labor,  politics^  and  re- 
ligion seem  to  me  absurd,  he  puts  his  nonsense  in  such  a  glit- 
tering way  that  he  captivates  me,  fools  me.  .  . .  All!  if  I  could 
only  succeed,  with  this  training  of  hard  labor,  in  bringing 
that  genius  back  to  the  straight  path.  .  .  .  [Noticing  that  DON 
JOSE  has  fallen  asleep,  with  his  head  on  his  chest]  Why,  father! 
Are  you  going  to  sleep? 

DON  JOSE.  [Waking  slowly,  and  thinking  he  is  talking  to 
some  one  else]  Rosario  de  Trastamara,  Duchess  of  San 
Quentin.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  if  I  tell  you  that  .  .  .  [Waking  up] 
Ah!  I  thought  ...  I  have  that  woman's  visit  so  much  on 
my  mind  that  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  Is  that  so?    Is  Rosario  coming  here? 

DON  JOSE.  You  heard  the  Marquis  of  Falfan.  She  can't 
be  long  now.  She  said  in  her  letter  she  was  coming  to  ask 
my  advice.  "  . 

DON  CESAR.  To  ask  advice!  Translate  that  into  the  1?"- 
guage  of  the  day — to  ask  for  money. 

DON  JOSE.  Why,  is  she  so  badly  off? 

DON  CESAR.  Poor  as  a  church  mouse. 

DON  JOSE.  Is  it  all  gone? 


112   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

DON  CESAR.  Soon  after  her  spendthrift  husband  died  the 
real  estate  passed  into  the  hands  of  three  or  four  creditors. 
Rosario  had  to  sell  the  pictures,  armor,  and  tapestries,  the 
plate  and  china,  and  even  the  servants'  liveries. 

DON  JOSE.  What  a  pity! 

DON  CESAR.  She  disposed  of  her  jewels  in  Paris,  so  I 
heard.  Now  she  has  nothing  left  but  her  wardrobe,  a  col- 
lection of  fashionable  clothes  that  are  worth  nothing. 

DON  JOSE.  Merciful  heaven!  To  think  that  so  great  a 
house  should  end  like  that!  Tell  me,  did  you  see  Rosario  in 
Madrid  lately? 

DON  CESAR.  No,  sir.  Since  the  bitter  quarrel  that  I  had 
with  her  father,  the  proudest,  most  obstinate  imbecile  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  any  of  the  family, 
and  the  relationship  is  a  dead  letter  for  them  and  for  me. 

DON  JOSE.  Poor  Rosario!  I  can't  forget  that  I  used  to 
hold  her  on  my  knees  and  kiss  her.  .  .  .  Surely,  if  her  poverty 
is  as  great  as  you  say,  we  shall  have  to  help  her  out. 

DON  CESAR.  [Rising]  You  can  do  as  you  like.  I  wouldn't 
give  her  a  penny.  She  won't  ask  for  it;  no,  but  she  will  weep. 
You'll  see  how  she  weeps.  In  that  noble  family  tears  are 
the  refined  way  of  begging  for  alms.  [Starts  to  go. 

DON  JOSE.  Wait.    Listen  to  me. 

DON  CESAR.  I  must  go  to  the  town  hall. 

RUFINA.  [Running  in  gaily,  through  the  dining-room}  Grand- 
father, papa,  the  captain,  pilot  and  sailors  from  the  "Rufina." 
Come!  Come  and  see  the  sugar-ship. 

DON  JOSE.  I  am  coming.  Show  them  into  the  dining- 
room. 

RUFINA.  Shall  we  give  them  sherry? 

DON  JOSE.  No;  Jamaica  rum,  the  kind  that  burns  your 
throat.  I  am  coming.  Coming,  Cesar? 

DON  CESAR.  No*  [Preoccupied]  This  visit  of  the  Duchess 
looks  suspicious.  To  ask  advice!  What  for?  Can  it  be  she 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    113 

wants  to  marry  again?  Poor  woman!  Pride  and  poverty 
are  a  bad  pair.  [Seeing  VICTOR,  who  enters  upper  right]  Ah! 
Victor  .  .  .  [Harshly]  What  are  you  doing  here? 

VICTOR.  [Laborer's  dress,  blowe.  He  carries  various  tools] 
You  told  me  to  come  at  eleven  for  some  work.  ...  I  don't 
know  what. 

DON  CESAR.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now.  First,  did  you  in- 
spect the  "Rufina"? 

VICTOR.  Yes,  sir.    Yesterday. 

DON  CESAR.  Can  she  make  another  voyage,  just  one? 

VICTOR.  Hardly.  Some  of  her  ribs  are  broken;  nearly  all 
her  deck  timbers  need  to  be  replaced.  The  stern-post  and 
the  stem  are  weak  and  the  mainmast  is  cracked  at  the 
deck. 

DON  CESAR.  So  that  it  will  be  dangerous. . . .  But  one  voy- 
age, just  one,  in  calm  season — she  can  do  that,  surely. 

VICTOR.  If  she  doesn't  get  back  before  the  October  equi- 
nox, she  might  not  come  back  at  all. 

DON  CESAR.  Well,  all  right.  We'll  send  her  with  ore  to 
England.  A  return  cargo  of  coal,  and  then  we'll  put  the  ax 
to  her. 

VICTOR.  As  you  please. 

DON  CESAR.  Have  you  repaired  the  rolling-machine  that 
got  out  of  order  last  week? 

VICTOR.  It  is  done,  and  works  perfectly. 

DON  CESAR.  Good.  Now  bring  your  rule,  hammer,  and 
cold-chisel. 

VICTOR.  [Showing  them]  I  have  them  here. 

DON  CESAR.  [Leading  him  to  door  at  right]  I  have  told  you 
that  I  plan  to  put  up  another  story  over  these  rooms.  Meas- 
ure the  three  rooms  carefully,  and  make  me  a  plan  of  them. 
Examine  the  thickness  of  the  walls,  locate  the  supporting 
beams  so  that  you  can  find  them  again.  .  .  .  And  do  it  right 
off.  Get  the  plans  done  today. 


114    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

VICTOR.  Very  well. 

Exit  upper  right.     DON  Josfc  and  RUFINA,   returning 
from  the  dining-room,  see  him  go  out. 

RUFINA.  Oh,  papa,  on  a  day  like  tliis  isn't  there  any  rest 
for  poor  Victor? 

DON  JOSE.  He  will  rest  later,  my  dear. 

DON  CESAR.  What  he  is  doing  today  is  not  work  for  him. 

DON  JOSE.  Idleness  is  his  worst  enemy. 

RUFINA.  What  tyranny!  Everybody  is  against  him. 
[Firmly]  Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  am  here  to  defend 
him. 

DON  CESAR.  You?    It  seems  to  me  ... 
LORENZA  hurries  in  at  the  back. 

LORENZA.  Senor,  here  she  is. 

DON  CESAR.  The  Duchess? 

LORENZA.  The  carriage  has  just  stopped  at  the  gate.  She 
has  a  maid  with  her,  and  there's  a  cart  behind  loaded  with 
trunks. 

DON  CESAR.  I'll  make  my  escape.     Good-bye. 

[Exit  through  dining-room. 

DON  JOSE.  I  will  receive  her  here.  [Exit  LORENZA]  In  case 
she  stays  to  dinner,  they  had  better  make  some  preparation 
in  the  kitchen.  Order  a  tin  of  preserves — the  good  coffee, 
white  sugar. 

RUFINA.  Yes,  yes. 

DON  JOSE.  And  put  some  flowers  on  the  table. 

RUFINA.  Don't  worry.     Shall  I  stay? 

DON  JOSE.  No.  Rosario  will  want  to  see  me  alone.  You 
will  see  her  later.  You  can  go  to  church. 

RUFINA.  Very  well,  I  will. 

Exit  through  dining-room.    Enter  ROSARIO  at   back, 
dressed  in  an  elegant  traveling  costume. 

ROSARIO.  Serior  de  Buendia  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  Rosario,  my  child! 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    115 

ROSARIO.  [Examining  him]  A  little  older,  yes, — but  so  well 
preserved.  What  a  handsome  old  fellow  you  are! 

DON  JOSE.  And  what  a  handsome  young  person  you  are! 

[They  sit. 

ROSABIO.  This  reminds  me  of  my  dear  grandfather.  Do 
you  remember? 

DON  JOSE.  [Sadly]  Ah! 

ROSARIO.  And  my  father. 

DON  JOSE.  Poor  Mariano!  If  he  had  done  as  I  said,  you 
would  not  be  in  this  sad  situation  today.  But  with  him  as 
well  as  your  mother,  the  good  advice  of  this  old  preacher 
went  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other.  While  I  handled  the  ex- 
tensive interests  of  the  house  of  San  Quentin  in  this  district, 
I  worked  like  a  dog  to  put  some  order  in  the  budget  of  the 
family.  .  Ah!  it  was  like  putting  up  gates  in  an  open  field. 
I  had  to  abandon  the  task.  Our  relations  were  broken  off, 
and  finally  I  neglected  to  write  to  you — you  probably  don't 
remember — when  the  Juncosa  property  went  under  the 
hammer. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  it  makes  me  sad  today  to  pass  by  the 
Juncosa.  To  think  that  that  lovely  grove  was  mine,  and  the 
hill,  and  the  meadow.  There  in  that  old  house,  that  looks 
like  a  feudal  castle,  with  its  ivy,  its  battlemented  walls,  its 
lonely  mystery  and  romance,  I  passed  the  happiest  days  of 
my  childhood.  And  now,  the  Juncosa,  and  San  Quentin, 
and  the  ancestral  palace  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  [Embarrassed]  Are  mine.  Yes.  I  bought  them 
from  the  bidder.  Other  good  farms  of  San'Quentin  have  come 
into  my  possession  in  the  most  legitimate  fashion.  Gossip, 
my  child,  which  respects  nothing,  has  tried  to  insult  me  by 
whispering  that  I  made  loans  to  your  family  on  usurious  terms. 

ROSARIO.  Oh,  no.  If  I  mentioned  the  fact  of  our  property 
being  in  your  hands,  it  was  not  to  complain.  I  state  a  fact, 
a  coincidence  . 


116    THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

DON  JOSE.  A  very  natural  coincidence,  which  happens 
every  day.  Riches,  like  an  eel,  slip  away  from  the  weak, 
delicate,  effeminate  grasp  of  the  aristocrat,  to  be  seized  by 
the  strong,  calloused  hands  of  the  laborer.  Accept  this  les- 
son, and  learn  it  by  heart,  Rosario  de  Trastamara,  daughter 
of  princes  and  kings,  and  my  niece  once  removed  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  And  proud  of  it. 

DON  JOSE.  And  I  will  add,  to  drive  the  lesson  home  to  you, 
that  my  father  was  a  poor  pastry-cook  of  this  town.  Not 
that  he  was  without  superior  qualities.  The  tradition  is  that 
he  invented,  [proudly]  that  he  invented  the  rich  cakes  that 
have  made  Ficobriga  famous. 

ROSABIO.     Oh! 

DON  JOSE.  Sixty  years  ago,  when  your  grandfather,  the 
Duke  of  San  Quentin,  was  astounding  the  simple  countryside 
with  his  prodigal  luxury,  Jose  Manuel  de  Buendia  married 
Teresa  Corchuelo,  the  daughter  of  a  worthy  confectioner. 
Well,  on  the  day  of  my  wedding  I  did  not  possess  four 
pesetas.  I  got  married,  and  they  put  me  in  charge  of 
the  cakes,  which  began  to  find  a  market  outside,  and  I 
made  money,  and  I  was  able  to  increase  it,  and  I  became 
a  man,  and  look  at  me  today. 

ROSARIO.  An  example  for  everybody! 

DON  JOSE.  Ah!  if  I  had  only  taken  you  under  my  care! 
[Shaking  his  fist  playfully]  Now  tell  me  how  things  are  going 
with  you.  All  about  it. 

ROSARIO.  Ah!  Don  Jos£,  I  have  so  many  troubles  that 
I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  Soon  after  I  lost  my  husband, 
who  was,  as  you  know  .  . . 

DON  JOSE.  A  calamity.     God  rest  his  soul!     Go  on. 

ROSARIO.  I  found  myself  involved  in  disagreeable  law- 
suits and  discussions  with  my  aunts,  the  Gravelinas,  and  with 
my  cousin,  Pepe  de  Trastamara.  That,  and  the  complete 
ruin  of  the  family,  made  life  impossible  for  me  in  Madrid. 


ACT  i   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    117 

I  took  refuge  in  Paris,  and  there,  new  trials,  humiliations, 
daily  discussions,  a  life  of  misery. 

DON  JOSE.  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  You  must  have  suffered  a 
great  deal,  poor  child,  with  your  proud  spirit. 

ROSARIO.  Proud? 

DON  JOSE.  That's  what  they  tell  me. 

ROSARIO.  Oh,  my  troubles  have  humbled  my  pride  more 
than  you  think.  If  you  only  knew!  I  feel  in  me  a  vague 
dissatisfaction,  a  regret  at  having  been  born  into  the  upper 
circles.  And  at  the  same  time  I  have  here  [Gesture]  some 
strange  ideas.  I  find  in  myself  a  yearning  for  a  practical 
life  in  a  modest  home. 

DON  JOSE.  It's  a  bit  late,  a  bit  late  now. 

ROSARIO.  I  long  for  solitude,  quiet,  simplicity,  to  live 
with  truth,  with  my  own  feelings,  thinking  my  own  thoughts. 

DON  JOSE.  Oh!  You  want  to  withdraw  from  the  world. 
Does  the  life  of  the  convent  call  you? 

ROSARIO.  It  may  be  my  only  salvation.  I  want  to  con- 
sult you  about  it. 

DON  JOSE.  We  will  think  it  over,  and  discuss  it.  Don't 
worry.  Listen.  You  have  come  to  ask  my  advice,  and 
without  refusing  you  that,  I  will  give  you  something  better. 
I  will  give  you  shelter  in  this  humble  home. 

ROSARIO.  [Joyously]  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you! 

DON  JOSE.  While  you  are  deciding  whether  to  enter  a  con- 
vent or  not,  and  which  one  it's  to  be,  you  will  be  quiet  here. 

ROSARIO.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  in  the  way. 

DON  JOSE.  Not  a  bit.  I  assure  you  I  shall  not  change  my 
simple  habits.  If  there  is  enough  for  four,  there's  enough 
for  five.  The  old-fashioned  table,  you  know — only  soup, 
meat,  and  dessert.  The  house  is  big,  with  a  fine  view,  light, 
and  air,  and  cheerful  all  through. 

ROSARIO.  Don't  tempt  me,  Sefior  de  Buendfa.  How 
happy,  how  restful,  how  enchanting  it  is!  I  love  these  old. 


118    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

family  homes,  this  perfect  neatness,  this  black-walnut  pol- 
ished by  time  and  by  industrious  hands.  [Rises  and  looks 
out  of  the  loindow]  And  there's  the  garden.  I  saw  it  as  I 
came  in.  What  fine  apple-trees,  and  so  laden  with  fruit! 
And  the  chicken-yard!  And  that  terrace,  where  they  are 
ironing,  under  the  arbor.  And  there's  the  oven  .  .  .  And  a 
dove-cote — I  can  hear  the  cooing.  This  is  a  paradise! 

[Returns  to  DON  JOSE. 

DON  JOSE.  Besides  the  repose  that  I  offer  your  weary  mind, 
the  h'fe  here  will  be  like  a  course  in  domestic  science  for  you. 
My  granddaughter  will  teach  you  many  things  that  will  be 
new  to  you. 

ROSARIO.  [Clapping  her  hands]  Yes,  yes!  I  have  heard  so 
much  about  that  dear  child. 

DON  JOSE.  She  is  an  angel,  a  real  ministering  angel, 
capable  of  filling  a  chair  of  house-management. 

ROSARIO.  Where  is  she?     I  want  to  meet  her. 

DON  JOSE.  You  will  see  her  presently. 

ROSARIO.  And  only  you  two  in  the  family. 

DON  JOSE.  My  son  is  here  also. 

ROSARIO.  Don  Cesar!  [With  a  start,  rising. 

DON  JOSE.  Yes.    What's  the  matter? 

ROSARIO.  I  thought  your  son  was  still  in  Madrid. 

DON  JOSE.  He  returned  last  month. 

ROSARIO.  [Much  disturbed]  No,  no.  I  can't  accept  your 
hospitality.  I  cannot  remain  under  the  same  roof  with  that 
man. 

DON  JOSE.  What  foolishness!  Why  are  you  afraid  of 
Cesar? 

ROSARIO.  It  is  not  fear.     It  is  rather  dislike. 

DON  JOSE.  Ah!  I  understand.  The  friction  with  your 
father  some  years  ago. 

ROSARIO.  [Very  nervous]  Friction?  It  was  more  than  that. 
I  saw  my  father  on  his  death-bed,  at  the  hour  of  the  sacra- 


ACT  i    THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    119 

ment,  shed  tears  of  rage  at  not  finding  it  in  his  heart  to  forgive 
Don  Cesar. 

DON  JOSE.  Your  father  was  extreme  in  everything.  My 
dear  child,  forget,  and  forgive.  Bah!  I  assure  you  that  my 
son  will  not  bother  you.  Come,  C6sar  is  not  a  bad  man  at 
heart.  But  my  paternal  affection  does  not  blind  me,  and  I 
see  in  him  a  grave  fault. 

ROSABIO.  What? 

DON  JOSE.  His  weakness  for  the  fair  sex.  It  has  been  in 
him  a  disease,  a  blind  passion.  He  fell  in  love  with  every 
woman  he  saw.  From  that  defect  came  all  his  errors,  all  the 
grievous  sorrow  he  caused  his  poor  wife  and  me. 

ROSABIO.  What  a  deplorable  character! 

DON  JOSE.  But  we  must  be  just.  There  was  one  good  thing 
about  his  madness,  and  that  was,  that  he  never  gave  them 
money,  or  very  little. 

ROSARIO.  He  wanted  to  be  loved  for  himself  alone.  And 
by  the  way,  my  cousin  Falfan  spoke  te  me  of  ...  It  appears 
that  Don  Cesar  has  a  son. 

DON  JOSE.  And  he  is  a  very  grave  problem  for  us. 

ROSARIO.  Tell  me,  isn't  this  young  man  the  son  of  an 
Italian  woman  named  Sarah,  who  died  several  years  ago? 

DON  JOSE.  Exactly.    A  fine  present  to  make  to  his  father! 

ROSARIO.  And  you  expect  me  to  be  kind  to  Don  Cesar, 
when  you  yourself  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  But  your  injuries  are  purely  imaginary,  and 
besides,  it  is  all  over  now.  You  will  offend  me  if  you  refuse 
for  so  slight  a  cause  the  hospitality  I  offer  you. 

ROSARIO.  I  don't  want  to  offend  you. 

DON  JOSE.  [Taking  her  hands]  You'll  stay? 

ROSARIO.  For  your  sake,  and  your  granddaughter's. 

DON  JOSE.  Good.  I  will  try  to  make  life  pleasant  for  you 
in  this  humble,  but  peaceful  kingdom  of  mine. 

ROSARIO.  [Moved]  Thanks,  thanks.     I  suspect,  my  dear 


120   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

old  friend,  that  I  shall  find  it  so  pleasant  that  in  the  end  you 
will  have  to  turn  me  out. 

DON  JOSE.  [Jokingly]  Good!  We'll  turn  you  out  when  you 
are  in  the  way. 

Enter  LOBENZA  and  RAFAELA  and  two  men  who  bring 
in  four  trunks. 

DON  JOSE.  Put  those  down  here.  [To  ROSARIO]  Take  out 
the  simple  things  that  you  will  use  here,  and  leave  the  rest 
packed  away. 

ROSARIO.  That's  what  we'll  do. 

DON  JOSE.  [Indicating  the  door  at  the  right,  front]  You  will 
occupy  these  three  rooms,  which  were  my  wife's.  From  the 
windows  you  can  see  the  sea,  and  the  batliing-beach. 

ROSARIO.  Let's  go  and  look. 

[Exit,  right,  followed  by  DON  JOSE. 

LORENZA.  [To  RAFAELA]  Say,  are  all  those  full  of  clothes? 

RAFAELA.  Surely.  All  the  summer  tilings,  and  some  of  the 
spring  and  fall  dresses.  Twenty-seven  in  all. 

LORENZA.  Oh,  how  rich  your  mistress  must  be! 

ROSARIO.  [Coming  back  with  DON  JOSE]  Charming!  Ra- 
faela,  open  all  these;  I  want  to  change  at  once.  Take  out 
the  dotted  percale. 

DON  JOSE.  Well,  I'll  leave  you  alone  now.  I  am  in  the  way. 
I  must  go  to  the  town  hall  for  a  while.  [To  LORENZA]  My 
hat.  [LORENZA  gives  him  his  Jiat]  Try  to  be  ready,  and  to  get 
into  the  habit  of  punctuality.  [To  LORENZA]  Don't  forget .  .  . 
you  know  .  .  .  [Speaks  to  LORENZA  rapidly,  and  in  a  low  tone. 

RAFAELA.  [Who  has  opened  one  of  the  trunks  and  is  taking 
out  some  dresses,  which  she  puts  on  the  chairs]  Now  I  re- 
member, the  blue,  dotted  dress  isn't  in  here. 

ROSARIO.  [Indicating  another  trunk]  In  here,  stupid! 

DON  JOSE.  This  is  your  house.  Lorenza,  and  all  the  ser- 
vants, at  your  disposal. 

[Kisses  ROSARIO'S  hand,  and  exit,  rear,  ivith  LORENZA. 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    121 

ROSARIO.  Good.  [Jocosely]  Then  we  don't  need  you  any 
longer.  [Takes  off  her  hat  and  puts  it  on  the  table]  Get  me  out 
a  couple  of  waists,  too. 

RAFAELA.  [Struggling  unsuccessfully  with  the  lock]  Madam, 
I  can't  get  it  open. 

ROSARIO.  Then  leave  it.    Take  the  things  out  of  this  one, 
[The  one  that  is  open]  and  put  them  away  in  that  black- 
walnut  wardrobe.  [Pointing  through  door,  right. 
RAFAELA.  [Impatient]  Plague  take  the  lock! 
ROSARIO.  There  must  be  some  one  around  here  who  will 
help  you.  [Loud  pounding  on  the  wall,  at  the  right]  What's 
that? 

RAFAELA.  It  sounds  as  if  they  were  tearing  the  house  down. 

ROSARIO.  Come,  hurry  up.    Here,  I'll  take  these  out.    Go 

and  get  me  some  water.  [Turning  over  a  tray  of  dresses  which 

RAFAELA,  on  going  out,  left  on  a  chair]  Here  is  the  checked 

one.    I  don't  like  it. 

Pulls  it  out,  and,  turning  to  the  right  to  put  it  on  a  chair, 
sees  VICTOR,  who  comes  in  through  tlie  door,  upper 
right,  with  hammer,  chisel,  and  rule.  ROSARIO  is 
startled  and  gives  a  little  scream.  VICTOR  stands  mo- 
tionless, in  surprise,  looking  at  her. 

ROSARIO.  Oh!     It's     a    workman.     Excuse     me,     I     was 
startled.     If  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  open  that  trunk  . . . 
VICTOR.  [Aside]  Yes,  .  .  .  it  is  she. 

[Continues  looJcing  at  her,  in  ecstasy. 

ROSARIO.  Don't  you  hear  what  I  say?  Was  that  you 
pounding  on  the  wall  in  my  rooms? 

VICTOR.  [Aside.     Unable  to  conceal  his  joy]  She  lives  here! 
ROSARIO.  [Observing  him  with  an  expression  of  doubt  and 
wonder]  Why.  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Duchess.     What  did  you  say? 
ROSARIO.  [Aside.     Confused]  How  strange!    I  know  that 
man. 


122    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

VICTOR.  [Noticing  the  attention  with  which  ROSARIO  w 
looking  at  him]  You  will  have  some  difficulty  in  recognizing 
me  in  this  dress. 

ROSARIO.  Recognizing  you!  Why  .  .  .  Have  I  seen  you 
before? 

VICTOR.  Yes,  madam.  [Surprise  and  increasing  confusion 
of  ROSARIO.     A  pause]  But  what  was  it  you  asked  of  me? 
Enter  RAFAELA  with  two  pitchers  of  water. 

RAFAELA.  This  trunk  is  the  one  I  can't  open. 

Exit,  right.     VICTOR  examines  the  lock.    ROSARIO  con- 
tinues to  look  at  him. 

ROSARIO.  [.4si<fc]  Either  I  am  mad,  or  I  really  ...  do 
know  that  man.  But  who  is  it?  Where  have  I  seen  him? 
That  costume  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  [Who,  after  several  trials,  has  opened  the  trunk] 
There  it  is. 

ROSARIO.  Now  you  may  go. 

VICTOR.  [After  a  pause,  hesitating  whether  to  venture  or  not] 
Without  satisfying  your  curiosity?  For  you  are  cudgeling 
your  brains,  Duchess,  at  this  moment,  to  recall  where  and 
when  you  have  seen  me. 

ROSARIO.  That  is  true.  [Aside]  He  is  a  bit  forward. 

VICTOR.  If  madam  will  allow  me,  I  will  refresh  her  memory 
in  two  words. 

ROSARIO.  Are  you  Don  Cesar's  son? 

VICTOR.  Yes,  madam. 

ROSARIO.  Oh!  And  how  is  this?  Condemned  to  hard 
labor  for  your  hot-headedness? 

VICTOR.  Yes,  madam. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  I  can't  restrain  my  curiosity.  Tell  me 
how  and  when  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  First,  if  my  boldness  has  displeased  you,  I  beg  you 
to  pardon  me. 

ROSARIO.  [Haughtily]  You  are  forgiven.  Come,  answer  me. 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    123 

VICTOR.  Where  and  when  I  had  the  honor  of  being  in 
your  presence? 

ROSARIO.  Yes. 

VICTOR.  And  the  greater  honor  of  speaking  with  you? 

ROSARIO.  [Quickly]  Speaking  with  me?     Oh,  no. 

VICTOR.  Oh,  yes.  Hear  me  a  moment.  I  have  not  always 
been  dressed  as  a  workman.  My  father,  a  stern  man,  has 
imposed  this  costume — as  a  discipline.  I  was  brought  up  in 
France. 

ROSARIO.  [Interrupting]  And  in  Biarritz,  perhaps  .  .  .  you 
saw  me. 

VICTOR.  No,  madam.  Five  years  ago  my  father  sent  me  to 
Liege  to  study  mechanical  engineering.  After  the  theoretical 
course,  I  went  to  Seraing  and  worked  in  the  big  factory  by 
the  name  of  Cockerill.  On  Saturdays  three  or  four  of  us 
young  fellows  of  different  nationalities  would  get  together  and 
go  to  spend  Sunday  at  Antwerp,  Malines,  or  Bruges.  One 
day  we  went  to  Ostend.  It  was  the  height  of  the  bathing 
season.  Putting  together  the  little  money  we  had,  we  played 
a  few  turns  of  roulette  in  the  Casino,  and  fortune  favored  us. 

ROSARIO.  [Laughing]  You  won? 

VICTOR.  Enough  to  feel  rich  for  a  few  hours.  There  were 
three  of  us:  an  Alsatian,  a  Swiss,  and  your  humble  servant. 
Determined  to  play  a  gorgeous  prank,  we  established  our- 
selves luxuriously  in  the  Hotel  del  Circulo  de  Banos,  announc- 
ing ourselves  as  Russian  princes. 

ROSARIO.  Oh,  you  rascals!  Yes,  yes,  now  I  remember.  .  .  . 
One  afternoon  in  August.  Yes,  I  remember  the  young  Rus- 
sian prince. 

VICTOR.  It  was  I.  I  invited  you  to  take  a  walk  in  the 
grounds  during  an  intermission.  We  went  to  the  dairy,  we 
talked  awhile,  and  in  the  evening  at  the  ball,  I  ventured  .  .  . 
I  had  the  incredible  audacity  to  make  a  declaration  of  love  to 

you. 


124    THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

ROSAKIO.  [Laughing]  Yes,  yes,  and  it  was  a  most  violent 
and  passionate  one.  Now  I  remember.  .  .  .  But  tell  me.  .  .  . 
It  seemed  to  me  that  you  spoke  German  with  your  comrades. 

VICTOR.  I  speak  German  as  well  as  I  do  Spanish. 

ROSABIO.  With  me  you  spoke  French  .  .  .  like  a  Parisian. 

VICTOR.  Yes,  madam. 

ROSARIO.  You  learn  languages  easily? 

VICTOR.  I  have  that  gift,  lacking  others.  I  speak  English 
also.  Unfortunately,  at  that  time  not  one  of  us  knew  a  word 
of  Russian.  For  that  reason,  and  because  our  money  was 
soon  gone,  we  had  to  abandon  our  deception  and  escape  by 
the  first  train  Monday  morning. 

ROSARIO.  And  we  never  met  again. 

VICTOR.  Oh,  yes,  we  did. 

ROSARIO.  [With  great  curiosity]  But  when? 

VICTOR.  There  is  a  great  deal  more  to  tell. 

ROSARIO.  Really? 

RAFAELA.  [Enters,  right.  Indicates  another  trunk]  This  one 
too.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  it.  [To  VICTOR, 
imperiously]  Here!  Open  this  one,  too.  [Aside]  What  a 
handsome  fellow!  [Picks  up  some  dresses  to  take  away]  You 
might  help  me  carry  these  trays. 

ROSARIO.  Let  him  alone.  [Aside,  while  VICTOR  opens  the 

other  trunk]  This  is  like  a  novel.     How  extraordinary!    The 

Russian  prince  of  Ostend  opening  my  trunks  in  Ficobriga! 

[RAFAELA  goes  out  again  with  clothes. 

VICTOR.  [With  one  Jcnee  on  the  ground,  opening  the  lock] 
Shall  I  go  on? 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  yes.  I  like  to  get  away  from  the  beaten 
track.  But  take  care!  Don't  tell  me  anything  but  the 
truth. 

VICTOR.  If  you  knew  me,  madam,  you  would  know  that  I 
adore  truth,  and  that  I  sacrifice  everything  to  it.  [Opens  the 
trunk]  There  it  is, 


ACT  i   THE  DUCHESS  OP  SAN  QUENTIN    125 

ROSARIO.  You  adore  truth,  and  pretended  to  be  a  Russian, 
and  a  prince! 

VICTOR.  A  student's  prank.  And  what  a  day  it  was!  You 
were  then  newly  married,  and  most  beautiful. 

ROSARIO.  That  was  long  ago. 

VICTOR.  Now  you  are  much  handsomer. 

ROSARIO.  [Aside]  He  goes  too  far.  [To  VICTOR]  That  will 
do.  You  probably  have  something  to  do  elsewhere. 

VICTOR.  [Disconsolate]  You  dismiss  me, .  .  .without  hearing 
what . .  .  Do  you  think  that  you  lower  yourself  in  listening  to 
me? 

ROSARIO.  Oh,  no.  Speak,  say  what  you  like.  What  a 
rascal  you  must  have  been,  for  them  to  treat  you  like  this! 

VICTOR.  I  recognize  that  my  father  is  right.  I  have  been 
at  fault. 

ROSARIO.  Rebellious  to  study,  perhaps. 

VICTOR.  Yes.  I  did  not  study, — or  rather,  I  did  study, 
and  a  great  deal,  but  alone.  I  read  what  I  liked,  and  learned 
what  interested  me.  I  always  disliked  instruction  in  regular 
schools,  I  refused  to  work  for  marks  and  degrees.  What  I 
know,  I  have  no  diploma  to  show  for,  and  I  have  no  stamp 
of  official  education.  In  Belgium  I  learned  more  by  practice 
than  theory.  I  am  something  of  an  engineer,  something  of 
an  architect — without  the  title,  it  is  true.  But  I  can  make  a 
locomotive,  and  if  necessary  I  can  build  a  cathedral,  and  if 
I  set  about  it,  I  can  make  needles,  glass,  pottery. 

ROSARIO.  So  many  talents,  and  to  come  to  this  sad  state 
of  simple  laborer! 

VICTOR.  You  shall  see.  In  Belgium  I  was  carried  away 
by  the  idea  of  socialism.  I  was  captivated  by  a  German,  an 
agitator,  who  preached  the  transformation  of  society,  and  I 
took  part  in  a  big  strike.  I  made  speeches,  aroused  the 
masses.  A  wild  career,  which  ended  in  prison. 

ROSARIO.  You  deserved  it.   ' 


126   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

VICTOR.  They  'kept  me  six  months  in  the  prison  at  Ant- 
werp. My  father  wrote  to  me  reproaching  me,  and  refusing 
any  help. 

ROSAKIO.  And  quite  right.  The  idea  of  defending  such 
absurdities!  But  you  did  not  believe  in  all  that:  you  en- 
gaged in  it  as  a  pastime,  for  fun. 

VICTOR.  No,  madam.  I  believed  in  it  ...  and  I  still  be- 
lieve in  it.  When  I  got  out,  I  went  to  England.  But  I  could 
not  give  myself  up  to  the  study  of  my  beloved  theories,  be- 
cause in  London  I  met  a  Spaniard  who  insisted  on  recon- 
ciling me  with  my  father,  and  succeeded.  My  father  came 
for  me,  and  brought  me  to  Spain,  and  set  me  down  in 
Madrid. 

ROSARIO.  And  were  you  a  workingman  there? 

VICTOR.  No,  I  was  a  gentleman.  My  father  took  every 
precaution  to  keep  me  away  from  socialistic  propaganda. 
I  went  with  a  crowd  of  young  men  of  the  best  society,  some 
of  them  very  rich.  In  the  evening  I  would  put  on  evening 
dress,  and  thanks  to  the  easy  democracy  that  reigns  there, 
I  was  able  to  go  everywhere. 

ROSARIO.  Ah!  [Comprehending]  And  once  perhaps  you  saw 
me.  Well,  I  don't  recall  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  I  do.  Besides,  I  saw  you  continually  at  theaters, 
on  the  avenue,  at  church  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  You  went  to  church,  too? 

VICTOR.  I  went  everywhere  where  I  might  see  the  person 
who  fascinated  me,  whom  I  was  crazy  about,  who  .  .  . 
Enter  RAFAELA. 

RAFAELA.  [Aside]  That  young  workman  still  here!  What 
can  he  be  telling  my  mistress? 

ROSARIO.  And  did  you  also  preach  in  Madrid  the  destruc- 
tion of  society,  and  all  that  nonsense? 

VICTOR.  I  made  oral  and  theoretical  propaganda,  but  with- 
out success. 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    127 

RAFAELA.  [Aside.  Carrying  off  more  doilies]  He  is  hand- 
some. I'll  hook  him,  as  sure  as  two  and  two  are  four.  [Exit. 

ROSARIO.  No!  you  didn't  dare! 

VICTOR.  I  tell  you  in  all  sincerity,  and  in  all  modesty,  that 
I  dare  do  anything.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world,  nothing, 
that  I  am  afraid  of. 

ROSARIO.  [With  admiration]  Truly? 

VICTOR.  And  difficulties  and  dangers  increase  my  courage. 

ROSARIO.  Bravo!  It's  for  your  courage  that  they  keep  you 
in  this  servitude.  Heaven  knows  what  atrocities  you  com- 
mitted in  Madrid. 

VICTOR.  No:  my  life  in  Madrid  was  quite  innocent.  I 
did  nothing  but  follow  the  woman  who  was  my  delight  and 
my  torment,  since  she  fascinated  me  without  looking  at  me. 

ROSARIO.  She  didn't  look  at  you?     Heartless  creature! 

VICTOR.  She  did  not  know — she  does  not  know — my  wild 
passion. 

ROSARIO.  Such  unrequited  love  is  madness,  self-deception. 

VICTOR.  [With  heat]  It  is  a  love  whose  reality  is  beyond 
question,  since  in  it  I've  lived  and  shall  live;  a  love  of  spot- 
less purity,  since  I  never  hoped  for  it  to  be  returned,  nor  do 
I  now.  A  love  that  flames  as  high  in  the  absence  as  in  the 
presence  of  the  lovely  being  who  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [Laughing]  Enough,  enough.  What  a  deluge  of 
poetry!  I  must  get  under  cover.  [She  moves  away]  Frankly, 
I  don't  believe  in  love  at  first  sight;  even  in  plays  and  novels 
it  seems  to  me  of  questionable  taste.  To  fall  suddenly  in 
love  with  a  lady  of  rank,  follow  her  carriage,  pursue  her 
shadow  in  the  street,  assailing  her  with  unnoticed  glances  in 
parks  and  theaters,  adore  her  in  pure,  ethereal  ecstasy.  Tell 
that  to  some  one  with  less  experience  of  the  world! 

VICTOR.  I  tell  it  to  you,  because  it  is  the  truth,  and  be- 
cause you  asked  for  it.  I  live  with  that  delusion  and  I  shall 
die  with  it.  It  is  the  best  of  life  to  me.  I  cannot  endure  life 


128    THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  i 

without  the  continual  presence  of  my  idol  here,  [Gesture] 
and  here  I  carry  her,  and  here  I  adore  her,  peerless  being, 
Nature's  masterpiece,  image  of  divinity.  .  .  . 

ROSAKIO.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  But,  man,  tell  me  who  this  goddess 
is.  I  want  to  know  who  she  is.  Perhaps  I  know  her? 

VICTOR.  Pardon  my  presumption,  which  is  the  reward  of 
my  insignificance.  One  who  is  nothing,  has  nothing,  and 
perhaps  never  will  be  anything,  can  permit  himself  the 
luxury  of  sincerity,  of  frankness. 

ROSAKIO.  Oh,  but  I  like  sincerity.  It  is  a  great  relief  for 
one  who  has  lived  so  long  in  a  world  of  pretense  and  lies. 

VICTOR.  [Warmly]  Bless  you  for  those  words! 

ROSARIO.  [Impatient]  The  name!    What  is  her  name? 

VICTOR.  Why  do  you  wish  to  know? 

ROSARIO.  Come!    Who  is  she? 

VICTOR.    No,  no. 

ROSARIO.  Well,  if  you  won't  tell,  I  will,  and  make  you 
blush.  The  lady  whom  you  idolize  so  foolislily —  [Patise]  is  I. 

VICTOR.  Oh! 

ROSARIO.  I  guessed  it  at  once.  Do  you  think  I  have  never 
read  novels? 

VICTOR.  Madam,  notice  that  I  make  no  plea.  I  have  no 
hope,  and  never  shall  have. 

ROSARIO.  Naturally. 

VICTOR.  If  what  you  have  discovered  seems  to  you  un- 
pardonable, crush  me  with  your  indifference. 

ROSARIO.  [Still  jestingly]  Oh,  as  for  crushing  you.  .  .  . 
Nobody  minds  being  an  idol — more  or  less  false. 

VICTOR.  And  I  have  told  you  that  it  is  not  inconsistent  with 
the  greatest  respect.  I  swear  to  you  not  to  speak  of  it  again. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  these  things  don't  bear  repeating.  So  much 
poetry  is  cloying.  You  think  yourself  a  socialist,  and  you 
are  only  a  poet;  a  poet  who  wants  to  destroy  the  world  and 
set  me  up  as  a  statue  upon  the  ruins.  What  nonsense ! 


ACT  i    THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    129 

VICTOR.  Don't  notice  me.     Don't  even  look  at  me. 

ROSARIO.  What,  forbid  me  to  see  you!  If  you  come  near 
me  ...  I  shall  not  close  my  eyes  when  you  pass. 

VICTOR.  Then  if  my  existence  means  anything  to  you,  make 
me  your  slave. 

ROSARIO.  All  right.  Let's  begin  now.  [Enter  RAFAELA, 
right]  Be  kind  enough  to  assist  my  maid. 

[Pointing  to  the  trays  of  clothing  which  are  on  tJie  chairs, 

RAFAELA.  [Giving  them  to  him]  Here.  It  is  late.  The 
gentlemen  have  returned  already. 

VICTOR.  My  father  and  grandfather. 

[Exit,  right,  carrying  the  trays. 

ROSARIO.  [Aside.  Admiringly]  Such  assurance!  I  never 
saw  his  equal. 

Enter,  at  back,  DON  JOSE  and  RUFINA.     Behind  them, 
with  some  constraint,  DON  CESAR. 

DON  JOSE.  [Presenting  RUFINA]  My  granddaughter. 

ROSARIO.  What  a  pretty  girl!  [They  embrace  affectionately. 

DON  CESAR.  [Remaining  at  the  back,  right,  looking  at 
ROSARIO  with  admiration.  Advances  and  makes  a  low  bow, 
which  ROSARIO  acknowledges  coldly.  Aside]  Beautiful.  A 
splendid  woman.  [RAFAELA  and  VICTOR  re-enter,  right,  after 
more  clothes.  To  VICTOR,  with  displeasure]  What  are  you 
doing  here?  Go  back  to  the  factory  at  once.  Leave  the 
work  I  gave  you.  .  .  .  And  you  may  take  the  afternoon  off. 
But  keep  away  from  here. 

VICTOR  [Going  out  by  the  door  at  right,  upstage]  Very  well, 
sir.  I  will  go  away  ...  a  long  way. 

DON  JOSE.  [To  ROSARIO]  Well,  shall  we  eat?    It  is  time. 

ROSARIO.  [In  haste]  Just  five  minutes.  I  will  be  ready 
directly.  [Runs  to  her  room. 

DON  JOSE.  Five  minutes,  girl.  [Catting  through  door,  left] 
Lorenza,  the  soup! 

Curtain. 


ACT   II 

Terrace  at  BuENDfA's  house.  At  back,  a  line  of  apple  and 
oilier  fruit  trees,  and  trellis,  with  opening  in  center,  through 
which  enter  those  who  come  from  the  garden.  Background, 
a  rustic  landscape.  Doors  at  each  side,  front.  That  on 
the  left,  covered  with  vines,  leads  to  the  kitchen  and  service- 
rooms;  beside  it  an  opening  in  the  wall  leads  to  tlie  place 
wliere  tfie  oven  is  supposed  to  be  located.  TJie  door  on  Hie 
right  leads  to  ilie  living  apartments.  Left,  front,  a  large 
table  which  serves  for  ironing  and  for  kneading.  Two 
chairs  and  a  wooden  bench.  ROSARIO,  RUFINA,  LORENZA 
are  discovered,  all  three  wearing  large  aprons.  ROSARIO 
is  ironing  a  blouse,  LORENZA  directing  and  instructing  her. 
RUFINA  is  piling  on  a  bench  the  linen  already  ironed. 

LORENZA.  Bear  down  harder,  ma'am. 

ROSARIO.  [Doing  so]  Still  harder? 

LORENZA.     Not  so  much.       Ah!  the   gentlemen's    shirt- 
bosoms  are  the  real  test. 

ROSARIO.  How  awkward  I  am! 

LORENZA.  Oh!  You  are  doing   well.    Many   a   girl   .   .   . 

RUFINA.  Don't  tire  yourself  out.     Lorenza  will  finish. 

ROBARIO.  [Tired,  laying  down  the  iron]  Yes,  I  can't  do  any 
more.     I've  earned  my  salt  today. 

LORENZA.  [Ironing  vigorously]  I'll  have  it  done  in  a  jiffy. 

RUFINA.  We'll  be  putting  it  away. 

ROSARIO.  [Piling  pillow-cases  and  sheets  on  a  wicker  tray] 
Let  me  do  it. 

RUFINA.  No,  let  me.     You  are  getting  tired. 
130 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   131 

ROSABIO.  Oh,  no,  I'm  not.  What  fun  to  fill  the  wardrobes 
with  this  clean,  white,  fragrant  linen!  And  to  put  it  all  in 
order,  the  different  sizes  and  kinds  together.  [Picking  up  the 
tray]  Up  with  it!  [RUFINA  helps  her  to  put  it  on  her  head] 
There  we  are! 

RUFINA.  [Pointing,  right]  In  the  big  wardrobe  there. 

[Exit  ROSARIO,  right. 

LORENZA.  She  doesn't  look  it,  but  she  has  strength  .  .  . 
and  so  willing! 

RUFINA.  Indeed  she  is. 

ROSARIO.  [Re-entering,  briskly,  right]  Now  the  sheets. 

RUFINA.  Now  it's  my  turn. 

[Takes  up  a  pile  of  linen.     Exit,  right. 

ROSARIO.  What  shall  I  do?  Lorenza,  give  me  the  iron 
again.  Since  I  came  here  I  have  lost  the  habit  of  sitting  with 
my  hands  folded,  and  now  idleness  is  torture  for  me. 

LORENZA.  I  am  just  finishing. 

RUFINA.  [Entering,  right.  Firmly]  There  now,  Duchess  of 
San  Quentin,  the  ironing  is  done.  What  do  we  make  today? 

LORENZA.  Butter. 

ROSARIO.  No,  today  it's  cakes.    Don  Jose"  said  so. 

RUFINA.  And  I  have  already  told  Victor  to  start  the  oven. 
LORENZA  gathers  up  the  last  of  the  linen  and  carries  it 
in.     Then  she  clears  away  the  ironing  implements. 

ROSARIO.  Today  I  am  going  to  tend  the  oven  myself,  and 
you  shall  see.  [Gestures  of  putting  cake  in  the  oven. 

RUFINA.  No,  you  don't  know  how.  You  have  had  no 
practice,  and  you'll  burn  them.  Leave  the  oven  to  me. 

ROSARIO.  All  right,  all  right. 

With  childish  uneasiness,  making  the  motions  of  knead- 
ing at  the  table. 

LORENZA.  Are  you  going  to  mix  them  here? 

ROSARIO.  Right  here,  where  it  is  cool. 

RUFINA.  And  Victor  will  bring  them  to  me. 


132  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

ROSARIO.     But  will  they  let  him  come  here? 

RUFINA.  He's  here  already.  [Pointing  to  tfie  garden]  Papa 
has  told  him  to  fix  the  asparagus  and  replant  the  old  straw- 
berry bed. 

ROSARIO.  What?     Does  he  understand  gardening  too? 

RUFINA.  That  boy  can  do  anything.  [Goes  to  the  back  and 
calls,  beckoning]  Oh,  Victor! 

ROSARIO.  Mr.  Socialist,  Social  Leveler,  come  here! 
Enter  VICTOR  at  the  back. 

VICTOR.  What  is  the  will  of  the  fair  Proletarians? 

RUFINA.  Get  ready.  We  need  your  reformatory  and  revo- 
lutionary co-operation. 

ROSARIO.  We  are  the  masses.  We  ask  for  bread  and  work; 
and  as  they  don't  give  us  bread,  we  make  it,  but  not  for  the 
rich  to  eat. 

VICTOR.  [Laughing]  Are  you  going  to  make  bread? 

ROSARIO.  Cakes,  man,  for  the  sovereign  people. 

[Pointing  to  herself. 

RUFINA.  And  you  are  to  bring  out  here  the  mixing-board, 
the  pans,  and  all  the  things. 

ROSARIO.  And  then  you  will  condescend  to  carry  the  cakes 
to  the  oven. 

VICTOR.  It  is  already  hot,  glowing  like  a  loving  heart. 
You  will  have  to  wait  until  it  cools  a  little. 

ROSARIO.  The  cold  light  of  reason  and  sanity. 

RUFINA.  Go  back  to  the  garden.  Papa  mustn't  say  that 
we  keep  you  from  your  work. 

VICTOR.  [Aside,  gazing  at  ROSARIO]  Divine  creature!  Poor 
me.  [Aloud]  Will  you  call  me  presently?  Promise  to  call  me. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  yes. 

VICTOR.  Au  revoir,  then.  [Exit,  back. 

RUFINA.  How  handsome  and  good-natured  he  is! 

ROSARIO.  Indeed  he  is.  A  big  heart,  and  gentle  as  a 
child. 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  133 

LORENZA.  [Who  has  been  in  and  out  several  times,  carrying 
off  the  ironing  things]  Don't  forget  the  hens.  It's  time  to 
feed  them. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  let's  go  and  feed  them. 

As  they  start  for  the  back,  they  are  detained  by  DON  JOSE 
and  the  MARQUIS,  who  enter.     Exit  LORENZA,  left. 

DON  JOSE.  Kere  she  is. 

MARQUIS.  [Laughing  at  ROSARIO'S  appearance}  Ha!  ha! 
ha!  Rosario,  is  that  you?  What  a  metamorphosis! 

ROSARIO.  [Indicating  DON  JOSE]  Here  is  the  worker  of  the 
miracle. 

DON  JOSE.  What  do  you  think?  She  gets  up  at  five  in  the 
morning. 

MARQUIS.  Just  the  time  she  used  to  go  to  bed  in  Madrid. 

ROSARIO.  And  how  are  you? 

MARQUIS.  Yesterday  I  moved  down  to  the  shore,  and  my 
first  visit  in  all  Ficobriga  is  to  the  daughter  of  kings,  now  a 
laundress. 

DON  JOSE.  She  goes  from  one  task  to  another  all  day. 
She  is  busy,  healthy,  and  happy. 

MARQUIS.  She  must  be.  Will  you  take  me  for  your  as- 
sistant? 

RUFINA.  Don't  forget  that  this  is  real  work. 

DON  JOSE.  Don't  forget  that  you  have  a  lot  of  fun  too, 
laughing  and  playing  pranks. 

ROSARIO.  Yesterday  we  were  up  on  the  mountain.  What  a 
splendid  view,  what  clear  sky,  and  what  fragrance!  I  never 
felt  so  fully  the  cliarm  of  nature  and  solitude. 

MARQUIS.  They  told  me  at  the  baths  that  you  were  nearly 
killed  one  day,  going  up  the  mountain. 

ROSARIO.  I? 

RUFINA.  It  was  nothing. 

DON  JOSE.  It  was  Victor's  stupidity.  I  have  scolded  him 
for  it.  He  persisted  in  leading  the  donkey  through  a  pass. 


134  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

ROFINA.  It  wasn't  Victor's  fault.  You  blame  poor  Victor 
for  everything. 

ROSARIO.  It  was  my  fault.  I  myself  told  him  to  take  me 
over  those  rocks.  We  nearly  fell  off,  rider,  and  donkey,  and 
guide.  But  thanks  to  the  courage  of  the  brave  fellow,  nothing 
happened. 

DON  Josfc.  And  it  won't  happen  again.  He  will  be  careful 
now. 

ROSARIO.  Well,  Currito  Falfdn,  cousin  mine,  illustrious 
scion  of  the  younger  branch  of  the  Otumbas,  will  you  help 
us  make  some  cakes? 

MARQUIS.  [Laughing]  Really?    Can  you  .  .  .  ? 

DON  JOSE.  She  kneads  them  like  a  professional. 

MARQUIS.  I  will  help  ...  to  eat  them.  And  I  also  accept 
Don  Josh's  invitation.  He  claims  there  is  no  cider  like  his. 

DON  JOSE.  [With  emphasis]  Home-made.  You  shall  see 
what  cider  is. 

ROSARIO.  And  now,  to  the  chicken-yard. 

MARQUIS.  Wait,  Rosario.  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Am  I 
less  important  than  the  fowls  of  the  air? 

RUFINA.  You  stay  here.  I'll  go.  [Exit,  back. 

DON  CESAR  enters  briskly  at  back. 

DON  CESAR.  Hasn't  Canseco  come?  Hello,  Marquis.  [Aside, 
suspicious  and  displeased]  That  spendthrift  here  again! 

DON  JOSE.  The  notary  will  be  here  soon. 

MARQUIS.  Tell  me,  Don  Cesar,  is  it  true  that  you  intend 
to  buy  the  Marquis  of  Fonfrfa's  coach  horses,  and  the  mare, 
which  are  to  be  auctioned  off  today? 

DON  CESAR.  [Proudly]  Yes,  sir.     What  of  it? 

DON  JOSE.  Have  you  gone  crazy?  What  do  you  want  of 
horses  like  them? 

DON  CESAR.  I,  I  ...  The  Marquis,  who  is  an  expert  in 
horseflesh,  will  advise  me. 

MARQUIS.  With  pleasure. 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   135 

DON  JOSE.  [Aghast]  Have  you  fallen  into  delusions  of 
grandeur?  Ce"sar,  come  to  your  senses. 

MARQUIS.  The  two  coach  horses,  Eclair  and  Nestor,  are 

of  my  brother's  stock,  mixed  breed.     The  mare  Sarah  was 

mine.     She    came    from    the    Duke    of    Northumberland's 

stables  ...  a  thoroughbred,  fine  as  coral,  and  swift  as  the  wind. 

ROSARIO  cleans  the  table,  and  finishes  putting  away 

some  things  that  are  left. 

DON  CESAR.  Will  you  give  me,  if  it  is  not  too  much 
trouble,  the  exact  pedigree  of  all  three  animals? 

MARQUIS.  I  have  it  all  in  my  book,  descent,  age.  .  .  . 
You  need  not  hesitate  to  purchase;  it  is  a  bargain. 

DON  JOSE.  [Uneasy]  This  isn't  a  joke?     Such  recklessness ! 

ROSARIO.  [Approaching  the  group]  Don  Cesar  intends  to 
have  his  carriage  like  the  rest  of  the  nobility,  so  that  Rosita 
the  Fishwife  may  ride  in  state. 

DON  CESAR.  You'll  see  who  rides  in  it. 

MARQUIS.  He's  going  to  get  married?     You  don't  mean  it! 

DON  JOSE.  [In  HI  humor]  If  the  choice  is  not  good,  it  is 
better  not  to  think  about  it. 

ROSARIO.  Get  married?  Why,  he  says  he's  going  to  die 
soon. 

MARQUIS.  That's  the  way  to  persuade  them. 

DON  CESAR.  I'm  good  for  a  while  longer.  [To  ROSARIO, 
abruptly,  in  an  affectionate  tone]  Rosario,  don't  work  so  hard, 
you'll  spoil  your  hands. 

ROSARIO.  What's  that  to  you? 

DON  CESAR.  To  me  .  .  .  ?  It  may  be  a  good  deal  to  me. 
And  you  shouldn't  be  out  in  the  sun  so  much  if  you  care 
about  the  delicacy  of  your  skin. 

DON  JOSE.  She  is  prettier  so. 

MARQUIS.  The  pastoral  type,  the  simple  country  lass! 

DON  JOSE.  [Scolding]  A  nice  time  to  get  these  high-toned 
notions! 


136  THE  DUCHESS  OP  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

ROSARIO.  Just  when  I  am  turning  to  the  populace. 

DON  CESAR.  My  dear  Rosario,  don't  quarrel  with  me. 
You  know  how  much  I  think  of  you.  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  [Disturbed]  There,  there,  enough  of  your  jokes. 

DON  CESAR.  It's  not  a  joke.  [To  ROSARIO]  Did  you  take 
what  I  said  as  a  joke? 

MARQUIS.  What's  all  this?  [Jolcing]  Don  Jos6,  this  is 
grave. 

DON  JOSE.  I  declare,  my  son  has  lost  his  wits. 

DON  CESAR., And  moreover  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  [Moving  away  angrily]  I  will  not  listen  to  any 
more  foolishness.  I  ought  to  treat  you  like  a  child.  Marquis, 
are  we  going  to  try  that  cider  or  not? 

MARQUIS.  .Whenever  you  like. 

DON  JOSE.  I  am  going  to  the  store-house  for  a  moment. 
I'll  meet  you  in  the  dining-room.  [In  the  doorway,  aside, 
looking  at  DON  CESAR]  Oh!  what  a  son!  We  shall  see,  we 
shall  see  who  comes  out  ahead.  [Exit,  back. 

LORENZA.  [At  right]  Senor  de  Canseco. 

DON  CESAR.  Show  him  into  my  room.  [To  ROSARIO]  I 
have  some  serious  business  to  attend  to.  We  will  talk  later. 
[  To  the  MARQUIS]  Excuse  me.  You  won't  forget  to  send  me  ... 

MARQUIS.  The  pedigrees?     Yes,  yes,  don't  worry. 

DON  CESAR.  I'll  see  you  later.  [Exit,  right. 

ROSARIO.  [Seeing  DON  CESAR  depart]  What  a  boor! 

MARQUIS.  I  would  swear  that  he  has  fallen  in  love  with 
you. 

ROSARIO.  Unfortunately  for  me,  he  has. 

MARQUIS.  And  has  he  declared  himself? 

ROSARIO.  He  asks  me  every  day,  in  a  different  form. 
Yesterday  a  long,  stupid,  ungrammatical  letter  proposing 
marriage. 

MARQUIS.  And  you  .  .  .  ! 

ROSARIO.  Hush,  for  heaven's  sake!     I  swear  that  I  would 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    137 

sooner  marry  a  mason,  a  day-laborer,  a  jail-bird,  than  that 
man. 

MABQUIS.  Well  said.  Anything  rather  than  this  family  of 
parvenu  pastry-cooks.  The  one  that  invented  the  cakes 
must  have  been  an  excellent  man.  But  the  stock  has  de- 
teriorated, and  Don  Cesar  is  a  perfect  scoundrel.  You  hate 
him,  but  not  so  much  as  I  do. 

ROSARIO.  No,  I  hate  him  more  than  you  do.  I  claim  the 
right.  The  sting  of  that  reptile  has  been  more  fatal  to  my 
family  than  to  yours. 

MARQUIS.  Ah!  you  don't  know.  I  won't  mention  to  you 
the  humiliation  in  which  I  have  lived  for  ten  years,  suffering 
his  treachery,  without  the  power  to  defend  myself.  Besides, 
the  man,  with  a  refinement  of  hypocrisy,  feigned  a  servile 
attachment  to  me,  and  after  playing  some  trick  on  me, 
would  outdo  himself  in  compliments  and  protestations  of 
friendship.  And  always  slily  criticising  my  acts  and  spying 
upon  me  .  .  .  !  He  wouldn't  let  me  alone,  followed  my  every 
move.  .  .  .  He  was  my  shadow,  my  nightmare.  Have  I 
never  told  you  what  he  did?  You  shall  see.  He  came  into 
possession  of  seven  letters  of  mine  to  Stephanie  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  And  sent  them  to  your  wife.  Yes,  I  knew 
that. 

MARQUIS.  He  had  a  certain  sum  to  send  to  Dolores  in 
bank-notes.  He  put  the  letters  in  the  same  envelope. 

ROSARIO.  Infamous!    And  you  didn't  kill  him! 

MARQUIS.  I  went  after  him  like  a  wild  beast.  Ah!  you 
should  have  seen  and  heard  him,  trembling,  cringing,  trying 
to  cover  his  cowardice  by  hypocrisy.  He  swore  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  .  .  .  that  he  thought  he  was  sending  the 
letters  to  me.  In  fact,  he  was  sending  me  at  the  same  time 
in  another  envelope  a  memorandum  of  interest  due. 

ROSARIO.  You  ought  to  have  strangled  him. 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  I  ought  to  have.    But  that  night  I  had  to 


138  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

have  two  thousand  dollars.  A  debt  of  honor  ...  a  case  of 
shooting  myself  if  I  did  not  get  them. 

ROSAHIO.  I  understand. 

MARQUIS.  And  I  had  to  humiliate  myself.  My  dear 
Rosario,  nothing  degrades  a  man  so  much  as  certain  kinds  of 
debt.  Don't  get  into  debt.  If  in  order  to  keep  free  from 
such  entanglements  you  have  to  go  down  in  the  social  scale, 
do  it  without  hesitation.  Marry  a  gatekeeper  or  the  watch- 
man on  your  street. 

ROSARIO.  You  are  right.  I,  too,  have  been  a  slave  and 
martyr.  Thank  heaven,  I  am  free,  though  poor. 

MARQUIS.  And  now,  cousin,  I  have  resolved  not  to  die 
without  administering  to  my  tormentor  a  blow  like  those  he 
gave  to  me;  I  take  pleasure  in  informing  you  that  I  have  it  all 
prepared  and  waiting  for  him. 

ROSARIO.  A  blow? 

MARQUIS.  A  mistake — of  the  choicest — like  his  own. 

ROSARIO.  Tell  me.    What  is  it? 

MARQUIS.  A  big  thing. 

ROSARIO.  [With  great  interest]  Tell  it  to  me.    Is  it  a  secret? 

MARQUIS.  Not  for  you. 

ROSARIO.  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do? 

MARQUIS.  [Fearful  of  being  overheard]  Destroy  the  illu- 
sion of  his  life.  You  know  that  there  is  around  here 
a  son  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  I  know  him.    He  is  here. 

MARQUIS.  And  moreover,  an  agitator,  partisan  of  socialism, 
of  atheism,  of  the  devil  himself.  But  with  all  that  he  is 
doubtless  a  better  man  than  C6sar. 

ROSARIO.  Indeed  he  is.  He  is  not  disagreeable.  He 
doesn't  seem  like  the  son  of  such  a  father. 

MARQUIS.  Well,  he  isn't  ...  he  isn't.    Is  it  clear  now? 

ROSARIO.  [Stupefied]  What  are  you  saying?  [Pause. 

MARQUIS.  Just  as  I  am  telling  you.    I  can  prove  it.    That 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   139 

is  to  say,  what  I  can  prove  is  that  the  parentage  of  the  young 
social  reformer  is  an  enigma,  an  unknown  quantity. 

ROSABIO.  [With  great  curiosity]*  Explain  yourself.  Is  it 
possible  that  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  Did  you  ever  know  a  certain  Sarah  Balbi? 

ROSARIO.  An  Italian,  governess  in  the  Gravelinas  family? 
I  have  heard  my  mother  speak  of  that  woman.  Ah!  now  I 
begin  to  see.  And  Cesar  loved  her,  and  thought  her  faith- 
ful ... 

MARQUIS.  Human  nature  is  a  strange  thing. 

ROSARIO.  A  man  who  knows  counterfeit  money  so  well 
that  in  a  hundred  thousand  good  coins  he  can  pick  the  bad 
one,  by  merely  turning  them  over  on  the  table — and  not 
know  what  Sarah  was! 

MARQUIS.  And  take  her  for  pure  gold !  Such  blindness  is  a 
punishment  from  heaven. 

ROSARIO.  But  you  .  .  .  how  do  you  know? 

MARQUIS.  You  remember  that  poor  Barinaga  died  a  few 
months  ago,  at  my  house. 

ROSARIO.  A  colonel  in  the  army,  very  distinguished,  with 
a  white  beard. 

MARQUIS.  He  got  mixed  up  in  politics,  and  ended  his  days 
in  poverty.  I  took  him  in  to  save  him  from  the  poorhouse. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  yes,  and  the  poor  fellow  also  had  an  affair 
with  the  Italian  woman? 

MARQUIS.  Yes. 

ROSARIO.  At  the  same  time  as  Don  Ce"sar. 

MARQUIS.  Two  days  before  he  died,  the  poor  colonel  told 
me  his  story.  Now  you  see.  He  loved  her  madly;  he  kept 
seven  letters  from  her — seven!  Notice  the  number — seven 
letters,  which  he  gave  to  me. 

ROSARIO.  And  you  have  them  now? 

MARQUIS.  And  they  will  be  the  bomb  of  dynamite  which 
I  intend  to  place  in  the  hands  of  that  gentleman  who  makes 


140  THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  11 

mistakes.  Ah!  I  forgot  to  say  that  Barinaga  suffered  the 
torments  of  jealousy. 

ROSAKIO.  So  that  Sarah  deceived  him  also  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  He  believed  so,  or  feared  so.  That  woman  was 
a  mystery,  a  mystery  full  of  charm:  I  know  that.  Let  us 
draw  a  veil  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  draw  the  veil. 

MARQUIS.  In  the  seven  letters,  which  I  call  the  seven  mani- 
festoes, it  becomes  evident  that  she  was  exploiting  Don 
Cesar's  blind  confidence  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  With  the  argument  of  her  maternity. 

MARQUIS.  Which  she  used  as  a  lever  to  force  the  money 
box  that  was  so  hard  to  open. 

ROSARIO.  A  horrible  story!  And  that  poor  youth!  But 
how  is  he  to  blame?  Rob  him  of  his  name,  deprive  him  of 
his  fortune!  No,  no,  cousin,  don't  do  that.  Let  him  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  It  is  a  serious  matter.  Don't  think  that  I  ... 
I  too  hesitate  sometimes  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [Suddenly  changing  her  mind]  Oh!  what  possi- 
bilities! Yes,  you  must  .  .  . 

MARQUIS.  You  think  then  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [Retracting,  horrified  at  herself]  No,  no. 

MARQUIS.  Then  it  seems  to  you  that  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [After  hesitating]  Yes,  yes.  I  feel  a  bitter,  re- 
vengeful impulse.  Don  C6sar  deserves  a  hard  blow,  and  I'll 
not  be  the  one  to  spare  him.  My  hatred  for  him  I  have  in- 
herited from  my  father. 

MARQUIS.  I  know. 

ROSARIO.  And  from  my  mother  also.  That  man  presumed 
to  make  love  to  her,  and  angry  and  spiteful  at  seeing  himself 
repulsed  with  horror,  he  slandered  her  infamously. 

MARQUIS.  Don't  I  know  it?     He  said  that  she  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [Indignant,  closing  his  mouth]  Hush! 

MARQUIS,  Then  it's  settled.    I  am  to — make  a  mistake? 


ACT  n  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    141 

ROSARIO.  [Firmly]  Yes. 

MARQUIS.  He  has  asked  me  for  the  history  of  the  mare, 
whose  name  is  also  Sarah.  A  coincidence  from  on  high! 
And  so  I — make  a  clerical  error,  and  instead  of  putting  in  the 
envelope  .  .  . 

RosARlo.  I  understand.  [Agitated  and  disturbed]  Oh!  I 
don't  know  what  to  think.  I  don't  understand  my  own  feel- 
ings! If  you  knew,  cousin,  in  how  many  ways  this  matter 
interests  and  concerns  me! 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  I  think  that  as  a  matter  of  duty  we 
ought .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [Making  up  her  mind]  Will  you  do  as  I  tell 
you? 

MARQUIS.  What  is  it? 

ROSARIO.  Give  me  the  seven  letters. 

MARQUIS.  And  you  will  .  .  .  ? 

ROSARIO.  Leave  it  to  me. 

MARQUIS.  I  will  send  you  the  packet  by  some  one  I  can 
trust. 

ROSARIO.  I  will  take  upon  my  conscience  the  care  and  the 
responsibility  for  the  mistake.  [Hearing  voices,  right]  Hush. 
I  think  the  old  gentleman  is  calling  you. 

MARQUIS.  [Hastily]  Oh,  yes,  the  cider.  Then  it's  agreed 
that  I  will  send  it  to  you. 

ROSARIO.  Yes. 

DON  JOSE  enters  from  the  back,  behind  him,  LOKENZA. 

DON  JOSE.  Marquis,  I  am  waiting  for  you. 

MARQUIS.  I  was  just  coming. 

DON  JOSE.  [Searching  the  terrace  with  a  look]  Hasn't  that 
crazy  son  of  mine  come  back?  [To  LORENZA]  Where's 
C6sar? 

LORENZA.  In  his  room.  Senor  Canseco  has  gone.  He 
said  he  would  return. 

DON  JOSE.   Hum!  |/lmfe]  The  adoption. 


142  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  n 

MARQUIS.  But  you  don't  know  the  worst  of  it. 

ROSARIO.  That  I  am  the  cause  of  his  madness,  my  dear 
Don  Jose". 

DON  JOSE.  Don't  you  suppose  I  could  see  that?  For  days 
the  volcano  has  been  smoking  under  my  very  nose. 

ROSARIO.  I,  alas,  have  not  given  him  the  slightest  reason. 

DON  JOSE.  I  should  hope  not.  My  dear  child,  I  beg  you 
to  do  everything  in  your  power  to  put  the  foolish  idea  out 
of  his  head.  It  is  not  a  suitable  thing  for  him,  nor  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Certainly  not  for  me. 

DON  JOSE.  I  want  to  marry  him  to  a  plain,  unpretentious 
woman. 

ROSARIO.  A  very  natural  match.  And  thus  you  make  sure 
of  the  fish  business. 

DON  JOSE.  That  is  nothing  to  joke  about.  [Suspiciously, 
aside]  I  wonder  if  she  encourages  him?  We  must  be  on  our 
guard. 

RUFINA  enters  from  the  back  with  a  basket  of  eggs. 

RUFINA.  Eight  today. 

DON  JOSE.  [Examining  the  eggs  with  pleasure,  and  showing 
them  to  the  MARQUIS]  See  what  beauties  they  are. 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  indeed. 

DON  JOSE.  You  can  tell  your  friends  that  my  hens  are  the 
best  layers  in  the  world. 

MARQUIS.  I  shall  proclaim  it  far  and  wide,  and  woe  to  him 
who  doubts  it! 

LORENZA.  [To  RUFINA]  Give  me  the  key  to  get  the  sugar. 

DON  JOSE.  [Surprised]  Sugar? 

ROSARIO.  Surely.    For  the  cakes. 

DON  JOSE.  Oh! 

RUFINA.  We  are  going  to  make  five  pounds,  grandpa. 

DON  JOSE.  Then  one  pound  of  sugar.  Get  the  sugar  and 
cinnamon.  [Feeling  in  his  pockets]  Have  you  the  keys? 
[RUFINA  gives  the  keys  to  LORENZA]  A  pound  and  a  half  of 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    143 

butter,  you  know.  First  you  separate  the  whites  from  the 
yolks;  beat  the  yolks  with  the  sugar,  and  when  it  is  well 
beaten,  you  .  .  . 

LORENZA.  [Interrupting]  I  know  that,  sir. 

DON  JOSE.  I  say  you  are  to  mix  it  for  them  to  save  them 
trouble.  You  may  go.  [Exit  LORENZA]  Now  then,  Marquis, 
shall  we  try  the  cider? 

MARQUIS.  Allans!  And  then  I'm  going  down  to  the  shore. 
So  good-bye.  [To  ROSARIO]  You  have  your  work  laid  out  for 
you.  [Meaningly]  Knead  it  well. 

DON  JOSE.  Come  along. 

[The  MARQUIS  gives  him  his  arm.    Exeunt  at  back. 

VICTOR.  [Entering,  left,  with  cake-board,  rolling-pin,  and 
several  pans]  Where  shall  I  put  these? 

ROSARIO.  Here.     Has  Lorenza  beaten  the  eggs? 

VICTOR.  She  is  at  it  now.  The  yolks  and  the  sugar,  repre- 
senting the  union  of  the  aristocracy  of  blood  with  that  of 
wealth. 

ROSARIO.  [Joking]  Hush,  envious  proletarian! 

VICTOR.  What  is  the  matter  with  the  simile? 

ROSARIO.  It  is  not  bad.  Then  I  take  the  aristocracy,  and 
[Gesture  of  kneading]  mix  it,  amalgamate  it  with  the  popu- 
lace, common  flour, which  holds  everything  together. . .  How's 
that?  And  make  a  rich  pastry. 

RUFINA.  But  this  populace,  alias  flour,  where  is  it? 

ROSARIO.  And  the  butter — the  middle  class,  so  to  speak? 

VICTOR.  I'll  go  and  get  the  mass. 

ROSARIO.  But  don't  bring  us  the  masses. 

RUFENA.  And  don't  preach  the  social  revolution  to  us. 

ROSARIO.  [Pushing  him]  Quick,  quick. 

VICTOR.  Full  speed.  [Exit,  left. 

RUFINA.  [Arranging  the  cake-board  and  wiping  it]  How 
good  he  is! 

ROSARIO.  Are  you  fond  of  him? 


144  THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

RUFINA.  Indeed  I  am.     It  is  so  good  to  have  a  brother. 
Isn't  it? 

ROSARIO.  [Looks  at  her,  fixedly.     Sighs  sadly.    Pause]  Yes. 
Enter  LORENZA  with  a  basin  and  towel,  which  she  puts 
on  tJie  end  of  the  table.     Then  VICTOR  with  the  dough 
on  a  board. 

LORENZA.  It  is  all  mixed  now. 
ROSARIO.  Plenty  of  butter  in  it? 
LORENZA.  Yes,  ma'am. 

She  puts  tfie  dough  on  the  cake-board  and  begins  to 

pound  it. 
ROSARIO.  [Impatiently]  Let  me;  let  me. 

[Pushes  LORENZA  away,  and  pounds  the  dough. 
LORENZA.  Before  you  roll  it  out  ...  so,  so. 

[Indicates  the  motion  of  worJdng  it  with  the  fingers. 
RUFTNA.  And  turn  it  and  press  it  well  so  that  it  will  be 
firm. 

ROSARIO.  {Burying  her  hands  in  the  dough]  I  know,  stupid. 
You  go  to  the  oven.     Is  it  good  and  hot? 
LORENZA.  You  ought  to  see  it. 
RUFINA.  Come. 
ROSARIO.  I'll  have  the  first  batch  ready  in  a  jiffy. 

[Exeunt  RUFINA  and  LORENZA,  left,  upstage. 
ROSARIO.  [Interrupting    her    work]  Tliank    heaven    we're 
alone! 

VICTOR.  Fleeting  moments  of  happiness  for  me,  stolen  from 
the  sadness  and  solitude  of  this  prison. 

ROSARIO.  [Working  again]  I  am  going  to  scold  you,  young 
man.     Last  night  when  you  tnet  me  as  if  by  chance  on  my 
way  back  from  a  walk  on  the  beach  with  Rufina  and  the 
priest's  nieces,  you  said  hard  things  to  me.    I  dreamed  of  the 
masses  in  revolt,  of  the  guillotine  and  of  pillage. 
VICTOR.  That's  not  for  you. 
ROSARIO.  Because  I'm  poor  and  have  nothing  to  pillage. 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   145 

VICTOR.  That  is  not  the  reason. 

ROSARIO.  Then,  when  they  start  destroying  idols,  you 
will  make  an  exception  in  my  favor.  For  this  socialist  flouts 
all  his  ideas  by  falling  madly  in  love  with  an  aristocrat. 

VICTOR.  Madly,  yes. 

ROSARIO.  Traitor!  deserter!  apostate!  make  a  joke  of 
principles. 

VICTOR.  I  laugh  at  them. 

ROSARIO.  You  abandon  one  absurdity  to  aspire  to  another. 

VICTOR.  [Quickly]  No,  I  aspire  to  nothing.  I  know  that 
you  cannot  love  me. 

ROSARIO.  Then  if  I  can't  love  you,  control  yourself.  Take 
your  heart  and  do  with  it  [Kneading  the  dough]  as  I  am  doing 
with  this  unfeeling  mass. 

VICTOR.  And  then  take  it  to  the  furnace  of  the  imagination. 

ROSARIO.  [Quickly]  Your  imagination  is  your  ruin. 

VICTOR.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  my  salvation.  Blessed 
imagination!  My  only  consolation  is  to  mount  it  and  speed 
away  through  infinite  space  to  the  region  of  the  ideal,  of 
thought,  free  and  unconfined.  Giving  rein  to  my  fancy,  I 
construct  my  life  to  suit  my  desires.  I  am  not  what  others 
try  to  make  me,  but  what  I  wish  to  be.  Laws  are  nothing  to 
me,  because  there  I  make  them  to  suit  myself.  I  plant  my- 
self on  the  fairest  planet:  I  am  a  king,  a  demigod,  a  god! 
I  love  and  am  loved  in  return. 

ROSARIO.  Enough.  That  reminds  me  of  my  childhood 
when  I  played  supposing  games  with  my  little  friends. 

VICTOR.  What  is  that? 

ROSARIO.  Didn't  you  play  supposing  games  as  a  child? 

It  is  great  fun.    I  was  crazy  about  it.     It  was  like  this:  we 

would  see  which  could  invent  the  biggest  stories,  and  the  one 

who  brought  forth  an  absurdity  that  no  one  could  surpass,  won. 

The  actress  will  determine,  according  to  the  meaning  of  the 

speeches,  when  she  will  interrupt  and  resume  the  work. 


146   THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  n 

VICTOR.  What  fun! 

ROSAKIO.  Let's  play  at  supposing.  Let's  see  which  of  us 
can  contrive  the  most  preposterous  thing. 

VICTOR.  The  most  impossible. 

ROSARIO.  Exactly.  The  other  night  I  thought  I  was  an 
ant,  and  that  I  kept  travelling  around  the  world,  always  in  the 
same  path,  until  I  wore  a  path  so  deep  that  I  split  the  earth 
in  two.  Imagine  how  many  centuries  I  should  need  to  ... 

VICTOR.  [Laughing]  Yes,  that's  clever.  Well,  I  supposed 
something  more  nonsensical  than  that: — that  you  and  I  were 
living  on  a  planet  where  the  trees  could  speak  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  And  the  animals  grew  leaves. 

VICTOR.  And  we  were  like  a  couple  of  walking  shrubs,  and 
our  eyes  laughing  flowers,  and  our  moutlis  flowers  that  kissed 
each  other. ...  In  that  far-off  world,  you  were  not  an  aristocrat. 

ROSARIO.  Probably  I  was  a  pumpkin,  perhaps  a  nice  little 
nettle.  Bah!  Your  nonsense  is  good  for  nothing,  Victor.  I 
can  suppose  an  impossibility  far  greater. 

VICTOR.  What? 

ROSARIO.  An  absurdity  almost  inconceivable.  [Pause.  They 
look  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  moment]  That  I,  not  in  that 
planet  where  the  grass  speaks,  but  here  on  this  earth,  should 
come  to  love  you,  to  sympathize  with  your  ideas  first,  and 
then  with  yourself. 

VICTOR.  Duchess,  do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad? 

ROSARIO.  Why  don't  you  invent  some  nonsense  like  that? 

VICTOR.  You!     Love  me?     Duchess  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Why  do  you  keep  saying,  Duchess,  Duchess? 
If  you  are  so  frosty  these  cakes  will  be  covered  with  icing. 
Call  me  Rosario. 

VICTOR.  Just  Rosario  like  that? 

ROSARIO.  Don't  you  know  that  the  Duchess  of  San  Quentin 
is  also  a  revolutionist  and  an  anarchist?  Yes,  sir,  I  think 
that  everything  is  going  very  badly  in  this  world;  that  with 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    147 

all  our  laws  and  pretences  we  have  come  to  inextricable  con- 
fusion, and  now  no  one  understands  it.  And  we  shall  have 
to  mix  it  up  again  like  this,  [Kneading  vigorously]  and  shape 
it  and  make  it  over,  and  pound  it,  and  roll  it  out,  [Suiting 
the  action  to  the  word]  to  arrive  at  something  different. 

VICTOR.  Admirable!     I  go  farther  than  that. 

ROSABIO.  Yes,  you  will  go  now  and  see  if  the  oven  is  ready. 

VICTOR.  I  know  it  is. 

ROSARIO.  Go  and  see,  I  tell  you. 

VICTOR  [Smiling]  Tyrant!  [Moving  away. 

ROSARIO.  I  am  not  the  tyrant;  it  is  the  baking,  the  public 
interest.  [Exit  VICTOR,  left,  upstage. 

ROSARIO.  [Stops  kneading,  and  takes  the  rolling-pin]  Ah, 
me!  [Sighs  deeply]  I  hardly  dare  admit  it  to  myself.  But  it 
is  true,  and  I  confess  it,  and  reproach  myself.  .  .  .  The  ideas 
of  this  man  seduce  me,  charm  me.  .  .  .  No,  it  is  not  his  ideas; 
it  is  the  man  himself.  [She  has  rolled  out  the  dough,  and  cuts 
it  with  the  knife.  She  stops  work,  and  takes  up  a  piece  of  the 
dough,  working  it  mechanically,  abstractedly]  What!  Rosario, 
shame  on  your  weakness!  In  love  with  a  poor  nameless  .  .  . 
Ah!  if  I  could  make  a  new  world,  new  society,  new  people, 
as  I  make  of  this  pastry  the  forms  I  please!  [Looking  at  a 
figure  which  she  has  moulded  rapidly]  No,  no.  We  must  ac- 
cept the  human  gingerbread  man  as  he  is,  as  the  cooks  of  old 
formed  him.  [Destroying  the  figure  and  trying  the  dough]  It  is 
not  hard  enough.  [Rolls  it  up  and  uses  the  rolling-pin  again] 
Poor  Victor!  A  hard  fate  is  his. 

[Stands  in  thought,  both  hands  on  the  rolling-pin. 

RAFAELA.  [Enters,  back,  with  a  package]  From  the  Marquis. 
He  charged  me  to  place  it  in  your  own  hands. 

ROSARIO.  Ah,  the  letters.  .  .  .  Sarah  .  .  .  [Unable  to  take  it] 
Put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  apron. 

RAFAELA.  [Putting  the  package  in  the  pocket]  Do  you  wish 
re  to  help  you? 


148  THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  n 

ROSARIO.  [Rolling  again]  No.  Leave  me  alone.  [Exit 
RAFAELA]  It  frightens  me  to  contemplate  the  abyss  that  is 
opening  between  Victor  and  Don  Cesar.  [Takes  the  knife  and 
cuts  the  dough.  Remains  motionless  in  thougftt]  Shall  I  dare? 
No.  Impossible. 

VICTOR  enters,  left,  upstage. 

VICTOR.  Ready  in  two  minutes. 

ROSARIO.  [Absent-minded]  Who? 

VICTOR.  The  oven. 

ROSARIO.  [Begins  to  make  the  cakes,  twisting  strips  of  dcrugji] 
Come,  Rosario,  hurry  up. 

VICTOR.  When  I  came  in,  you  seemed  to  be  talking  to 
yourself. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  and  I  was  saying  that  it  is  foolish  to  sacri- 
fice every  tiling  to  truth,  and  that  the  great  art  in  life  consists 
in  adapting  ourselves  blindly  to  this  mass  of  fiction  and  pre- 
tence that  surrounds  us. 

VICTOR.  I  don't  believe  that.  For  me  it  is  war  to  the  death 
against  all  falsehood  of  whatever  kind. 

ROSARIO.  Do  you  love  truth? 

VICTOR.  Above  everything  else. 

ROSARIO.  And  do  you  maintain  that  the  truth  should 
always  prevail? 

VICTOR.  Always. 

ROSARIO.  Even  when  it  causes  great  unhappiness? 

VICTOR.  The  truth  can  do  no  harm. 

ROSARIO.  You  say  that  very  confidently.  You  are  very 
puritanical. 

VICTOR.  You  are  very  curious. 

ROSARIO.  One  more  question.  I  like  to  know  all  your 
tastes  and  desires.  Do  you  care  about  money,  wealth? 

VICTOR.  [Disconcerted]  That  question  ...  in  that  form.  .  .  . 
Why,  it  all  depends. 

ROSARIO.  You  are  an  enemy  of  capital.     So  that  it  will  be 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    149 

very  disagreeable  to  you  to  see  that  rascally  capital  coining 
your  way.  You  will  take  a  stick  and  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  As  for  that  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Come,  that  hatred  'of  capital  is  theoretical, 
especially  when  the  capital  is  one's  own.  [VICTOR  starts 
to  speak.  She  goes  on]  Wait  and  let  me  make  the  ques- 
tion more  concrete.  You  have  in  prospect  wealth,  a 
position,  a  name.  If  you  should  lose  all  that,  should  you 
regret  it? 

VICTOR.  Wealth  and  poverty  will  be  all  one  to  me  if  you 
love  me. 

ROSARIO.  I  love  you!  You're  coming  back  to  our  game  of 
impossibilities. 

VICTOR.  Let  us  come  back  to  it,  and  tell  me  that  it  is  not 
an  impossibility — that  it  is  possible. 

ROSARIO.  [Looking  into  his  eyes]  Ah!  Victor,  between  you 
and  me  there  is  a  horrible  phantom. 

VICTOR.  [Surprised]  A  phantom? 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  and  in  order  to  destroy  it, — note  well  what 
I  say, — I  should  have  to  commit  a  crime. 

VICTOR.  [Stupefied]  A  crime! 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  sir,  a  little  crime — a  village  crime.  [Laugh- 
ing] What  a  face! 

VICTOR.  Really,  I  don't  understand. 

ROSARIO.  Don't  you  see?     I  am  wicked,  very  wicked. 

VICTOR.  You  are  an  angel. 

ROSARIO.  An  angel  that  can  kill;  the  angel  of  assassina- 
tion, as  they  said  of  Charlotte  Corday. 

VICTOR.  [With  increasing  astonishment]  You,  capable  of 
killing! 

ROSARIO.  Yes. 

VICTOR.  Whom? 

ROSARIO.  You. 

VICTOR.  [Taking  it  as  a  joke]  Me?    Very  well,  from  your 


150  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

hand  I  will  accept  death,  if  only  it  brings  me  love  at  the  same 
time. 

ROSARIO.  And  you  won't  be  angry  with  me  ...  if  I 
kill  you? 

VICTOR.  Never.  If  you  doubt  it,  put  me  to  the  test.  What 
must  I  do? 

ROSARIO.  [Handing  him  a  pan  of  cakes]  For  the  present, 
take  Rufina  the  first  panful.  [Alarmed  at  seeing  DON  C&SAR 
entering,  right]  Ah!  Don  C£sar.  Careful! 

DON  C£SAR.  [Brusquely,  surprised  at  seeing  VICTOR]  What 
brings  you  here? 

ROSARIO.  Don't  scold  him.     I  told  him  to  come. 

DON  CfesAR.  This  is  an  occupation,  my  dear  lady,  suitable 
for  children  and  women.  Your  maid  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  I  have  given  her  something  else  to  do. 

DON  C£SAR.  Then  Pepita  .  .  .  And  you,  take  that  away, 
and  then  I  want  the  drainage  plan  for  the  lower  field  this 
afternoon. 

VICTOR.  Very  well.  [As  he  goes  out,  aside]  Unbearable 
tyranny!  [Exit,  back. 

DON  CfbsAR.  You  and  Rufina  have  upset  the  whole  house 
with  your  little  tasks  and  your  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Don  Jos6  doesn't  mind  what  we're  doing.  But 
if  you  don't  like  it  ... 

DON  CfesAR.  No,  no.  You  are  the  mistress  here.  Allow 
me  to  sit  down.  I  am  very  weak. 

[Brings  up  a  chair  and  seats  himself  by  the  table. 

ROSARIO.  As  you  reproved  me  ... 

DON  C£SAR.  Reprove,  no.  Go  on,  go  on,  since  you  have 
the  poor  taste  to  descend  to  occupations  so  far  beneath  you. 

ROSARIO.  [Preparing  cakes  rapidly]  Ha,  ha!  You  are  still 
harping  on  that  old  idea  of  class  distinctions?  Remember 
that  I  am  poor,  Don  Ce"sar.  [Sighing]  And  I  must  be  learning 
to  earn  my  living. 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    151 

DON  CESAR.  And  you  will  still  have  your  joke.  Duchess 
of  San  Quentin,  taking  everything  into  account  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  I  never  was  any  good  at  accounts. 

DON  CESAR.  I  mean,  when  you  think  it  over — for  of  course 
you  will  marry  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Oh,  no. 

DON  CESAR.  If  you  take  a  second  husband  in  the  aris- 
tocracy, you  may  easily  fall  again  into  the  hands  of  some  one 
like  poor  Gustave.  I  am  not  an  attractive  man,  at  first 
blush,  as  they  say,  but  when  you  know  me.  .  .  .  Oh,  Rosario, 
I  will  love  you  with  my  heart  and  soul;  I  will  give  you  a 
fine  position. 

ROSARIO.  I  am  sick  of  fine  positions. 

DON  CESAR.  Mere  fancy. 

ROSARIO.  It's  true.  Ah,  Don  Ce'sar!  After  a  life  of 
grasping  and  usury,  you  have  taken  a  fancy  to  become  a 
Duke.  If  my  father  could  raise  his  head  and  see  you  asking 
me  to  be  your  wife  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  He  would  be  glad. 

ROSARIO.  And  if  my  poor  mother  could  come  to  life 
again  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  She  would  be  glad,  too.  Come,  Rosario,  my 
dear,  let  us  forget  old  disagreements  .  .  .  which  never  had  any 
basis  of  truth.  Tell  me,  in  heaven's  name,  what  shall  I  do 
to  overcome  this  aversion? 

ROSARIO.  You'd  have  to  be  born  again. 

DON  CESAR.  I  will  be  your  slave,  and  fit  myself  to  your 
wishes  and  caprices.  I  will  be  as  yielding  as  that  dough 
that  you  take  in  your  fingers  and  mould  as  you  like. 

ROSARIO.  You  would  be  hard  to  twist. 

DON  CESAR.  That  would  be  on  account  of  the  coating  of 
sugar. 

ROSARIO.  Sugar — money.  Ah!  Don  C£sar,  a  mountain  of 
sugar-cane  wouldn't  be  enough  to  sweeten  you! 


152  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

DON  CESAR.  We  would  add  soft  butter,  sentiment,  affec- 
tion, domestic  peace. 

ROSARIO.  No,  the  mixture  would  still  taste  bitter. 

DON  CESAR.  [Rising  and  thumping  his  chair  on  the  ground] 
The  devil  take  your  pastry!  You  drive  me  mad.  You  play 
with  me  like  a  kitten  with  a  spool,  and  you  confuse  my 
soul  and  make  me  a  snarl,  a  tangle,  and  I  don't  know  what  to 
think.  [Firmly]  Come,  let's  make  an  end  of  this. 

ROSARIO.  That's  what  I  want,  to  end  it. 

DON  CESAR.  Did  you  read  nay  letter? 

ROSARIO.  Surely. 

DON  CESAR.  Why  don't  you  answer? 

ROSARIO.  Be  calm. 

DON  CESAR.  How  can  I?  I  like  to  have  things  definite. 
Yes,  or  no.  I'm  not  like  you.  As  an  aristocrat,  you  like  to 
exercise  your  fickle  disposition,  and  it  disgusts  me. 

ROSARIO.  Thank  you. 

DON  CESAR.  No.  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  you  than  I've 
any  reason  to  have.  I  believe  firmly  that  you  will  answer 
me,  that  perhaps  you  have  already  written  the  answer. 

ROSARIO.  That  may  be. 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside]  She  is  flirting  with  me,  pretending  to 
despise  what  she  really  wants.  I  know  women! 

ROSARIO.  What  are  you  saying? 

DON  CESAR.  [With  a  show  of  sincerity]  That  you  are 
playing  with  me.  And  with  all  this  teasing,  you  arc  preparing 
for  me  a  pleasant  surprise. 

He  approaches  the  table,  and  leans  over  it  with  his  hands 
upon  it,  looking  at  ROSARIO,  softening  his  voice, 

ROSARIO.  A  pleasant  surprise?     Are  you  sure  of  it? 

DON  CESAR.  Yes.  And  you  are  going  to  give  me  a  yes 
flatly  and  frankly  that  will  make  me  happy.  [Noticing  the 
package  which  ROSARIO  has  in  the  pocket  of  her  apron]  Ah! 
What  have  you  there?  A  letter? 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   153 

ROSARIO.  Maybe. 

DON  CESAR.  [Moving  away  from  the  table]  Aha!  That  is 
the  reply  I  am  asking  for.  I  am  a  prophet,  Rosario.  I 
am,  unfortunately,  an  old  hand  at  the  wiles  of  feminine 
diplomacy. 

ROSARIO.  I  can  see  that. 

DON  CESAR.  I  penetrate  their  intentions,  I  catch  their 
thoughts  on  the  wing. 

ROSARIO.  Oh,  indeed!  Then  guess  the  reply  that  I  have 
here. 

DON  CESAR.  Well,  I'll  wager  you  accept,  but  with  a  lot  of 
delicate  circumlocution  .  .  .  the  eternal  feminine.  A  woman 
after  all — I  mean  a  lady. 

ROSARIO.  It's  all  the  same. 

DON  CESAR.  [Showing  great  impatience]  Will  you  permit  me 
to  approach?  [Without  waiting  for  permission,  he  comes  up  to 
ROSARIO  and  looks  at  the  packet,  which  is  sticking  half  out  of 
the  pocket]  It's  a  thick  one.  I  see  my  name — the  Marquis's 
writing. 

ROSARIO.  It  is  a  paper  that  my  cousin  has  sent  for  you. 

DON  CESAR.  [Disappointed]  About  the  horses?  Why  don't 
you  give  it  to  me? 

ROSARIO.  I  can't  use  my  nands. 

DON  CESAR.  Then  let  me  take  it. 

Starts  to  take  the  packet.     ROSARIO,  with  a  sudden  start, 
prevents  him  by  putting  her  hand  over  her  pocket. 

ROSARIO.  No.  [Pause.   DON  CESAR  is  surprised. 

DON  CESAR.  Why  .  .  .  ? 

ROSARIO.  [Aside]  I  dare  not  .  .  .  No.  Let  fate  take  its 
course,  let  falsehood  triumph. 

DON  CESAR.  [Very  serious]  If  that  package  is  only  what 
I  think  it  is,  why  don't  you  give  it  to  me? 

ROSARIO.  [At  a  loss]  The  fact  is  that  .  .  .  [She  has  an  in- 
spiration] You  were  right,  Don  C&ar,  This  is  my  reply.  I 


154  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

put  it  with  the  papers  that  the  Marquis  gave  me,  and  tied 
it  all  together  with  this  red  ribbon. 

DON  CfesAR.  [Impatient]  Then  give  it  to  me,  for  God's 
sake! 

ROSARIO.  No,  no. 

DON  CfcsAR.  [Bitter  and  sarcastic]  Is  what  you  said  to  me 
so  horrible? 

ROSARIO.  Naturally.  I  specify  my  grievances,  as  you 
asked  in  your  letter. 

DON  C£SAR.  [Showing  himself  gross  and  insulting]  And  you 
bring  up  the  case  of  your  father.  Well,  your  father,  the 
noble  Duke  of  San  Quentin,  had  a  lot  to  thank  me  for,  madam. 
I  saved  him  from  going  to  prison.  And  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  say,  "Aha!  He  deserved  to  go."  Not  I  ... 

ROSARIO.  [Unnerved,  stammering  with  anger]  And  why  do 
they  say  that  you  are  as  treacherous  as  you  are  base? 

DON  C&SAR.  And  you  will  also  talk  about  your  mother  .  . . 

ROSARIO.  Don't  take  her  name  upon  your  vile  lips! 

DON  C£SAR.  Her  name!  Innocent  creature!  What  do 
you  know  about  it? 

ROSARIO.  [Furious]  You  dare  repeat  .  .  .  !  Oh,  if  I  were  a 
man  I'd  strangle  the  infamous  .  .  .  [She  stops,  overcome  with 
anger.  Looks  at  him  with  scorn]  Don  Ce*sar,  let  us  have  no 
more  words.  You  deserve  no  consideration,  nor  even  pity. 
[Giving  him  the  packet]  Take  this. 

DONC&JAR.  At  last!  [Takes  it. 

ROSARIO.  I  beg  you  to  leave  me. 

DON  CfesAR.  Good.  I  will  retire.  [Starts  to  the  door,  right, 
and  stops,  hesitating,  as  if  dissatisfied  with  himself.  Aside] 
The  devil!  I  have  been  a  fool.  Blinded  by  anger.  [Trying 
to  reopen  the  conversation]  Rosario  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Enough. 

DON  CfcsAR.  [Humbly]  But  you. .  . .  Did  you  take  seriously 
what  I  said?  [Hypocritically]  Without  meaning  to,  one  word 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    155 

led  to  another,  and  I  ran  on  without  thinking.  ...  I  was  im- 
pertinent. [RosARio  moves  away,  turning  her  back]  What? 
Won't  you  hear  me?  [Takes  a  few  steps  toward  her]  You  know, 
my  nerves  are  all  upset,  from  not  sleeping,  and  not  eating. 
I  get  mixed  up.  .  .  .  Anybody  is  likely  to  make  a  mistake  .  .  . 
especially  a  sick  man. 

ROSARIO.  [Aside]  His  cringing  apologies  are  more  offen- 
sive than  his  insults. 

DON  CESAR.  Won't  you  let  me  explain? 

ROSARIO.  [Sharply]  No. 

DON  CESAR.  You  are  angry  with  me? 

ROSARIO.  [With  disdain,  not  unmixed  with  compassion]  Oh! 
No. 

DON  CESAR.  [Going  toward  the  door]  I  will  read  your  reply, 
and  then  we  will  have  a  talk.  You  will  do  me  justice. 

ROSARIO.  Justice!    That's  exactly  the  idea. 

DON  CESAR.  [From  the  door,  looking  at  her  with  eyes 
of  passion.  Aside]  You  little  savage!  I'll  catch  you  yet, 
though  it  be  in  a  trap. 

Exit.  VICTOR  has  entered,  left,  upstage,  a  few  moments 
before  DON  CESAR'S  departure,  and  has  waited  for 
him  to  leave. 

VICTOR.  He  has  gone.  It  seemed  to  me  that  you  were 
speaking  with  some  excitement.  What  is  happening? 

ROSARIO.  [Agitated  and  embarrassed]  Nothing  .  .  .  no. 

VICTOR.  [Taking  up  the  pans]  Shall  I  take  these? 

ROSARIO.  [Takes  them  from  him]  No,  not  now.  Heavens! 
what  have  I  done?  [Hastily  washes  her  hands  in  the  basin] 
Victor,  forgive  me!  No,  you  will  never  forgive  me.  Im- 
possible. 

VICTOR.  [Alarmed]  For  what?    What  are  you  doing? 

ROSARIO.  You  see:  washing  my  hands — like  Pilate.  Or 
rather,  no;  I  am  guilty.  .  .  .  There  is  blood  on  them. 

VICTOR.  [Not  understanding]  Rosario! 


156  THE   DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  11 

ROSARIO.  All!  my  dear  Victor!  .  .  .  Truth  above  every- 
thing. .  .  .  You  believe  that,  don't  you? 

VICTOR.  Yes. 

ROSAKIO.  Always,  and  under  all  circumstances? 

VICTOR.  Always,  always. 

ROSARIO.  [Dropping  the  towel,  runs  to  VICTOR  and  puts 
both  hands  on  his  breast,  questioning  him  with  an  affectionate 
look]  Victor! 

VICTOR.  What? 

ROSARIO.  Will  you  always  love  me?    Always? 

VICTOR.  [Overcome,  not  knowing  what  to  say]  Rosario! 

ROSARIO.  Oh,  I  must  be  crazy  to  talk  to  you  like  that!  So 
immodest! 

VICTOR.  It  is  the  truth  rising  and  coming  out. 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  that's  it.  Now  I  repeat:  Will  you  always, 
always,  love  me,  in  spite  of  ... 

VICTOR.  [Quickly]  In  spite  of  what? 

ROSARIO.  Of  this  .  .  .  Because  your  love  is  what  I  care  for 
most  in  the  world,  and  I  am  condemned  [With  emotion]  to 
have  your  hate. 

VICTOR.  I?     What  nonsense!     Why  .  .  .  you're  weeping. 

ROSARIO.  [Drying  her  tears]  No,  no. 

VICTOR.  [Passionately]  Ask  of  me  the  greatest  sacrifices, 
the  hardest  service;  put  me  to  the  test.  My  love  will  not 
be  complete  unless  I  can  suffer  for  it. 

ROSARIO.  [Sadly]  Don't  ask  for  sacrifices.    They  will  come. 

VICTOR.  But  explain  to  me  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  I  can  say  nothing.     I  am  going  now. 

VICTOR.  [Trying  to  detain  her]  No. 

ROSARIO.  Let  me  go!  I  am  going — to  the  oven.  [Forcing 
a  laugh]  You  see,  I  have  to  take  this,  [Indicating  tlie  two  pans 
of  cakes]  and  I  want  to  see  how  the  baking  has  come  out. 

[Exit  rapidly,  left,  upstage. 

VICTOR.  [Agitated]  Love,  yes,  love!    It  is  revealed  in  her 


ACT  n  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   157 

eyes,  in  the  trembling  of  her  voice.  Can  I  be  mistaken? 
[Doubtful]  I  wonder.  [Thoughtful]  What  is  this  intangible 
mystery  that  floats  about  me?  Rosario  .  .  .  this  house  .  .  . 
my  family  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  [Enters,  back]  I  smell  something  burning. 
Those  crazy  girls  have  let  the  baking.  .  .  .  Ah!  Victor. 

VICTOR.  [Vehemently]  Grandfather,  I  want  to  be  different. 
I  am  different.  I  declare  myself  changed,  transformed  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  Good.     But  you  must  prove  it. 

VICTOR.  Do  you  doubt  it?  Command  my  acts,  my 
thoughts.  I  renounce  all  the  ideas  that  offended  you;  I 
surrender.'  I  will  identify  myself  with  tjie  family  which  is 
about  to  receive  me  into  its  midst  .  .  . 

DON  JOSE.  In  fact,  your  father  intended  today  .  .  .  Here 
is  Canseco  with  the  papers. 
CANSECO  enters,  back. 

CANSECO.  My  dear  patriarch  .  .  .  Don  Victor. 

DON  JOSE.  [Looking  at  the  document  that  CANSECO  takes 
from  his  pocket]  Is  that  the  act? 

CANSECO.  Yes,  sir.  [Gives  it  to  him. 

DON  JOSE.  [Calling,  right]  Cesar,  my  son. 

DON  CESAR.  [Enters,  right,  with  an  expression  of  confusion 
and  anger,  which  he  restrains  with  difficulty.  VICTOR  and 
CANSECO  look  at  him  in  surprise]  What  is  it,  father? 

DON  JOSE.  [To  CESAR,  giving  him  the  document]  Look  this 
over.  [CESAR  snatches  it  and  crumples  it  convulsively]  What 
are  you  doing? 

DON  CESAR.  My  duty. 

[Tears  the  paper  and  throws  the  pieces  to  the  ground. 

DON  JOSE.  [Aghast]  Why,  my  son,  what's  this? 

DON  CESAR.  To  destroy,  annihilate. .  . .  Oh,  fool  that  I  am ! 
I  can  easily  tear  up  this  paper  .  .  .  but  the  shame,  the  decep- 
tion with  which  I  have  lived,  how  can  I  destroy  and  remove 
that?  Who  will  destroy  the  years,  the  acts  of  treachery,  the 


158  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  11 

infamous  deceit,  my  stupid  blindness?  [Overcome,  looking  at 
VICTOR,  who  remains  at  the  left  of  tJie  stage,  waiting,  troubled 
and  silent,  and  without  understanding  what  is  happening]  Ah! 
There  he  is!  That  living  sham,  my  deception  through  all 
these  years!  His  person  which  was  pleasing  to  me  but  yester- 
day, now  shames  and  offends  me! 

VICTOR.  [Aside]  God!  what  is  he  saying? 

DON  JOSE.  My  son,  you  are  raving. 

DON  CESAR.  [Wildly,  with  staring  eyes]  Oh!  if  I  only  were 
raving,  dreaming!  But  no,  no.  I  have  not  even  the  conso- 
lation of  doubt. 

DON  JOSE.  What? 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside,  to  DON  JOSE,  in  a  low  and  mournful 
tone]  It  is  certain,  father,  the  living  truth.  It  is  her  hand, 
her  delicate  writing,  fair  and  false;  it  is  herself,  coming  back 
from  the  grave  to  reveal  to  me  her  vile  imposture. 

VICTOR.  [Understanding  by  DON  CESAR'S  manner  that  some- 
thing serious  is  happening,  but  not  knowing  what  it  is]  What 
mystery  is  this?  [To  CANSECO,  who  approaches]  Have  they 
told  him  something  about  me?  Slander  perhaps  .  .  . 

CANSECO.  [Confused]  I  don't  know. 

VICTOR.  [Taking  two  or  three  steps  toward  DON  CESAR] 
Sir... 

DON  CESAR.  [Terrified}  Don't  come  near  me. 

DON  JOSE.  Victor,  have  you  caused  sorrow  to  your  father? 
RUFINA  and  ROSARIO  enter,  left,  upstage.  ROSARIO 
remains  near  the  watt,  and  docs  not  advance  until 
VICTOR  is  left  alone. 

RUFINA.  [Running  up  to  VICTOR]  Victor,  what  are  you 
doing?  We  have  been  waiting  for  you. 

DON  CESAR.  Rufina,  come  away  from  that  man. 

RUFINA.  [Startled]  Why,  papa? 

CANSECO.  Don  C£sar  doesn't  want  anybody  to  go  near  him. 

RUFINA.  [To  her  father]  Papa,  what  has  Victor  done? 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   159 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside  to  RUFINA  and  DON  JOSE]  Nothing. 
He  is  innocent. 

RUFINA.  I  don't  understand. 

DON  JOSE.  I  do.     But  explain  to  us. 

DON  CESAR.  [Dejectedly]  I  can't.  The  truth  burns  my 
lips.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  tell  my  disgrace.  [Falls 
fainting  in  a  chair]  I  feel  very  ill.  ...  I  am  dying.  [All  sur- 
round him  except  VICTOR]  My  strength  leaves  me  in  this 
crisis  of  honor,  of  conscience.  I  can  only  suffer,  and  curse  my 
fate,  and  revile  heaven  and  earth.  [Nervously  sitting  up  in  the 
chair,  supported  by  DON  JOSE  and  RUFINA]  I  feel  fire,  gall, 
shame,  coursing  through  my  veins. 

VICTOR.  [Overwhelmed]  What  is  this  horrible  enigma?  But 
great  heavens,  of  what  am  I  accused?  [With  rage,  clenching 
his  fists]  What  have  I  done? 

DON  CESAR.  Done?  Nothing,  nothing.  No,  I  can  say 
nothing.  My  courage  fails  me.  ...  I  can't,  I  can't. 

VICTOR.  Good  God! 

RUFINA.  [Embracing  her  father]  Are  you  ill? 

DON  JOSE.  Let  us  take  him  in. 

CANSECO.  And  call  the  doctor. 

DON  JOSE.  Yes,  yes. 

DON  CESAR.  [Led  by  DON  JOSE,  RUFINA,  and  CANSECO] 
My  daughter. . . .  My  only  true  . . . 

[Kisses  and  puts  his  arm  around  her. 

DON  JOSE.  Come.  [Exeunt,  right. 

VICTOR.  [Angrily,  running  to  the  right]  No,  no!  You  must 
tell  me  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [Advances  and  detains  him]  Wait.    I  will  tell  you. 

VICTOR.  You,  Rosario?  You  possess  the  key  to  this  hor- 
rible mystery? 

ROSARIO.  Yes. 

VICTOR.  And  you  know  ...  In  heaven's  name,  explain  to 
me.  .  .  .  My  father  .  .  . 


160  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN   ACT  n 

ROSARIO.  Don't  call  him  that. 

VICTOR.  Why? 

ROSARIO.  Because  he  isn't. 

VICTOR.  [Horrified]  He  isn't!    I  am  not .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  [Rapidly]  Don't  ask  me  anything  more.  You 
are  not  to  blame.  [Seriously]  The  guilty  ones  are  no  more. 
God  has  punished  them  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  [Covering  his  face]  Oh!  [Drops  into  a  chair. 

ROSARIO.  Life  is  a  fickle  thing,  and  surprises  us  with  sud- 
den revolutions  and  changes.  Do  not  the  rich  and  powerful, 
and  even  kings  fall?  Then  if  the  great  fall,  why  should  we 
wonder  if  ordinary  mortals  fall  too  and  disappear,  and  vanish 
into  nothing? 

VICTOR.  [Not  listening]  The  proofs,  the  proofs  of  this  .  .  . 
whatever  it  is. 

ROSARIO.  They  are  undeniable. 

VICTOR.  [Greatly  agitated]  Who  told  my  father — Don 
Cesar?  You?  Why?  For  what  purpose? 

ROSARIO.  For  the  sake  of  truth.  I  thought  that  one  who 
loves  truth  above  everything  would  not  reproach  me  for  that. 

VICTOR.  [Confused]  Yes,  but  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  The  truth,  always  the  truth!  Does  your  moral 
standard  permit  you  to  accept  a  name  and  a  position  that  do 
not  belong  to  you? 

VICTOR.  Oh,  I  would  never  do  that. 

ROSARIO.  And  do  you  regret  the  loss  of  the  wealth  you 
thought  was  yours? 

VICTOR.  I  should  be  a  hypocrite  to  pretend  that  this  blow 
does  not  wound  me  deeply.  Just  when  I  wanted  a  name  and 
a  fortune  to  be  able  to  aspire  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  To  what? 

VICTOR.  [Bitter  and  disconsolate]  Can  you  ask  me?  You 
are  cruel  to  impress  upon  me  the  distance,  now  infinite,  that 
separates  us. 


ACT  ii  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  161 

ROSARIO.  [Tenderly]  Victor,  console  yourself.  How  many 
times,  in  talking  with  me,  you  have  protested  against  social 
distinctions,  cursed  property,  and  even  names.  Names — 
vain  idols,  according  to  you,  to  which  so  often  the  purest  in- 
stincts of  the  heart  are  sacrificed!  Well,  now  your  ideal  is 
realized ;  now  you  have  no  property,  not  even  a  name.  Now 
you  are  nobody. 

VICTOR.  [Recovering  himself]  Nobody?  Oh!  not  quite, 
not  so  low  as  that.  [Rising  abruptly]  Away  with  weakness  that 
is  unworthy  of  me!  It  is  over  now,  the  shock  of  the  fall.  I 
still  live.  ...  I  am  myself.  [With  courage]  I  will  accept  with  a 
tranquil  heart  the  most  difficult  and  desperate  situations.  I 
fear  nothing.  The  abyss  into  which  I  have  dropped  does  not 
dismay  me,  and  its  shadowy  depths  will  not  cause  a  shudder. 
I  thought  I  possessed  the  riches  of  the  earth — all  of  them,  all: 
those  that  make  life  peaceful  and  happy,  that  stir  the  mind, 
that  rejoice  the  heart.  A  dream,  an  illusion!  It  is  my  fate 
—a  cruel  fate.  [Boldly]  Well,  with  all  its  cruelty  and  pain,  I 
accept  it,  I  face  it,  I  welcome  it,  and  I  will  go  on  living. 
Forward,  then.  What  am  I?  Nobody?  Good!  I  am  a 
man,  and  that  is  enough. 

ROSARIO.  A  man,  yes,  of  powerful  intelligence  and  firm 
will. 

VICTOR.  My  will!    That  is  all  I  have  left. 

ROSARIO.  Not  quite.  [Meaningly] 

VICTOR.  I  have  a  sad  and  hopeless  love,  more  hopeless  now 
than  ever.  [Vehemently,  and  with  curiosity]  But  tell  me, 
Rosario,  in  God's  name,  what  motive  had  you  in  revealing  to 
my  father — to  Don  Cesar — this  .  .  .  this  .  .  .  thing? 

ROSARIO.  A  great  interest  .  .  .  immense. 

VICTOR.  What? 

ROSARIO.  [Embarrassed]  That  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  [Anxiously]  What? 

ROSARIO.  Something  that  I  could  not  say  to  the  son  of  that 


162  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN    ACT  n 

man,  whom  I  hate.  Between  the  false  father  and  the  sup- 
posed son  I  have  opened  an  impassable  abyss.  [Tenderly] 
And  now  that  you  are  alone  in  the  world,  now  that  you  no 
longer  have  over  you  the  despicable  shadow  of  Don  C6sar 
de  Buendia,  I  can  say  to  you  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  What? 

ROSAKIO.  [With  a  burst  of  love  and  enthusiasm]  Son  of 
Adam,  outcast  of  fortune,  wanderer  in  the  wide  world — my 
poor  darling  .  .  .  [Pause.  She  rests  her  eyes  on  VICTOR.  He, 
opening  his  arms,  goes  toward  her]  I  love  you. 

VICTOR.  My  angel! 

ROSARIO.  My  love!  [They  embrace.    Quick  curtain. 


End  of  Act  Two. 


(The  Scene  is  the  same  as  in  Act  One) 

LOBENZA  discovered  putting  the  room  in  order;  RUFINA 
enters  at  back,  wearing  a  hat  and  walking -suit. 

RUFINA.  How  animated  and  gay  the  whole  town  is!  The 
plaza  is  full  of  people,  and  the  whole  square  of  San  Roque, 
and  Lantigua  Avenue  all  the  way  to  the  church. 

LORENZA.  Yes,  yes.  Rarely  lias  the  pilgrimage  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Sea  been  so  big  as  this  year.  Ah!  the  fifteenth 
of  August,  the  great  festival  of  this  town,  is  hardly  recogniz- 
able nowadays!  Today  it  is  all  excitement,  and  eating  and 
drinking,  and  lots  of  people  from  inland  and  from  overseas 
.  .  .  but  devotion,  real  devotion — don't  look  for  that,  because 
it  isn't  there.  Well,  did  you  girls  go  as  far  as  the  sanctuary? 

RUFINA.  It  was  hard  to  make  our  way  through  the  crowd, 
such  pushing,  and  swaying  .  .  .  But  finally  we  got  there,  and 
offered  to  the  Holy  Virgin  the  three  wreaths,  ours  and  yours. 
[Anxiously  looking  toward  the  right]  But  Rosario  .  .  . 

LORENZA.  Didn't  she  come  home  with  you? 

RUFINA.  No,  I  thought  she  had  come  on  ahead. 

LORENZA.  I  haven't  seen  her  come  in. 

RUFINA.  In  San  Roque's  square  the  Lantigua  girls  kept 
me  talking  a  few  minutes — such  chatterers — and  when  I  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  away,  Rosario  wasn't  with  me.  I  looked 
for  her  all  through  the  streets  and  shops  of  the  fair,  and 
couldn't  find  her.  The  Duchess  of  San  Quentin  had  dis- 
appeared. I  thought  she  had  come  home,  and  that  I  should 
find  her  here. 

163 


1G4  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  in 

LORENZA.  [Alarmed]  Do  you  suppose  she  is  lost  in  the 
crowd,  and  can't  find  her  way  home? 

RUFINA.  What?  Rosario?  She  can  find  her  way  any- 
where. She  is  not  lost. 

LORENZA.  But  what  has  happened  to  the  Duchess,  anyway? 
She  doesn't  get  up  early  any  more;  she  doesn't  work;  she 
spends  the  morning  gathering  wild  flowers,  and  the  nights 
looking  at  the  moon,  and  counting  the  stars  to  see  if  they 
are  all  there. 

RUFINA.  Just  her  whims. 

LORENZA.  A  strange  whim  to  be  as  gloomy  as  a  funeral, 
when  she  ought  to  be  as  happy  as  a  lark. 

RUFINA.  Oh,  you  think  .  .  . 

LORENZA.  Yes.  They  haven't  told  us  about  it,  but  every- 
body in  town  is  talking  about  it. 

RUFINA.  Why,  what  do  they  say? 

LORENZA.  That  you  will  soon  have  a  handsome  stepmother. 

RUFINA.  Come,  come.  Don't  talk  nonsense.  What  do 
you  know  about  it? 

LORENZA.    More  than  you  do. 

RUFINA.  You  don't  understand  what  has  happened  here, 
and  you  can't  understand. 

LORENZA.  [To  herself]  My  word,  the  girl  is  stupid!  [Mys- 
teriously] Since  the  day  of  the  revolution  in  this  house  .  .  . 

RUFINA.  Hush.    Don't  remind  me  of  it. 

LORENZA.  Since  the  day  they  repudiated  Mr.  Victor, 
leaving  him  in  the  class  of  the  sovereign  people,  strange 
things  have  been  happening  in  the  house  of  Buendfa.  The 
poor  boy!  When  we  were  just  becoming  fond  of  him,  it 
turned  out  that  .  .  . 

RUFINA.  [Sadly]  That  he  is  not  my  brother.  For  me  he 
always  will  be.  I  regarded  him  as  my  brother  from  the  time 
he  came  to  the  house,  and  I  shall  consider  him  so  as  long  as  I 
live.  When  I  become  a  nun, — and  the  religious  life  attracts 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  165 

me  more  strongly  every  day, — I  shall  pray  for  him  night  and 
morning,  asking  the  Lord  to  give  him  some  happiness — of 
the  little  that  exists  on  this  earth. 

LORENZA.  He  deserves  it,  the  dear  boy.  I  shall  never  for- 
get that  afternoon  when  I  saw  him  go  out  of  the  house,  never 
to  return.  And  don't  imagine  that  he  was  downcast  and 
dejected.  I  said  then,  he  seems  too  haughty  for  the  common 
herd. 

RUFINA.  [With  interest]  You  haven't  seen  him  since? 

LORENZA.  No. 

RUFINA.  Tell  me  the  truth. 

LORENZA.  I  assure  you  I  haven't. 

RUFINA.  And  you  haven't  heard  from  him? 

LORENZA.  No.  I  ask  ah1  the  workmen  I  know,  and  no- 
body can  tell  me  anything. 

RUFINA.  I  can't  understand  it. 

LORENZA.  He  must  have  gone  away. 

RUFINA.  No,  no.  He  is  here.  Canseco  must  know  where, 
because  grandfather  and  papa  have  sent  him — that  I  know, 
I  overheard  it — have  sent  the  notary  to  propose  to  him  .  .  . 

LORENZA.  They  have?    What  .  .  .  ? 

RUFINA.  You  shall  see.  I  begged  grandfather  not  to 
abandon  poor  Victor  and  he — you'll  never  guess  what  my 
dear  old  granddaddy  said — Well,  he'll  give  him  the  "Rufina," 
which  is  now  ready  to  sail,  loaded  with  ore,  and  with  pro- 
visions for  two  months.  Last  night  he  told  the  captain  to 
clear  for  Boston  or  Philadelphia,  with  cargo  for  sale  on  arrival. 
They  will  give  Victor  the  ship,  with  the  papers  all  in  order, 
on  condition  that  he  leaves  at  once.  The  ship  and  everything 
in  it  is  his,  and  when  he  reaches  the  United  States  he  can  sell 
it,  and  buy  land  in  the  west,  and  make  a  big,  big  ranch. 

LORENZA.  Ah!  what  a  man!  How  he  runs  everything, 
and  gives  everybody  his  due.  He  is  a  regular  Providence. 
And  Victor,  does  he  accept? 


166  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  in 

RUFINA.  We  shall  know  soon,  because  the  captain  wants 
to  sail  on  tomorrow's  tide. 

LORENZA.  [Seized  by  an  idea]  Oh,  do  you  suppose  Victor  is 
already  on  board? 

RUFINA.  [Quickly]  Oh,  that  hadn't  occurred  to  me.  We 
must  find  out  at  once. 

LORENZA.  Yes,  John  will  know — my  nephew,  he  is  the 
quartermaster.  [Goes  to  back. 

RUFINA.  Listen.     Rosario's  delay  worries  me. 

LORENZA.  I  will  send  Rafaela  to  look  for  her.  [Looking  out 
at  back]  Ah!  Here  she  is.  [Enter  ROSARIO,  back.  LORENZA 
stops  on  seeing  her,  as  if  about  to  enter  into  conversation]  Have 
you  had  a  pleasant  walk,  ma'am? 

RUFINA.  Go  and  do  what  I  told  you,  and  leave  us.  [Exit 
LORENZA]  Thank  heaven!  Where  have  you  been? 

ROSARIO.  [Downcast]  Oh,  I  wasn't  lost.  I  was  .  .  .  [Anx- 
iously] Tell  me,  have  you  heard  anything? 

RUFINA.    Nothing,  dear. 

ROSARIO.  And  Lorenza,  who  knows  everything  and  hears 
everything,  hasn't  she  found  out .  .  .  ? 

RUFINA.  Not  yet. 

ROSARIO.  [Very  much  agitated]  I  am  so  uneasy!  Since  that 
day,  which  I  shall  never  forget,  we  haven't  seen  him  nor 
heard  from  him.  Why  is  he  hiding?  Is  he  trying  to  avoid 
me? 

RUFINA.  Oh,  no. 

ROSARIO.  It  would  be  an  inexplicable  change.  His  last 
words,  when  he  said  good-bye  to  me  and  left  the  house,  indi- 
cated tender  affection  and  Christian  fortitude.  I  don't 
know  which  touched  me  more,  his  love  for  me  or  the  proud 
courage  with  which  he  faced  misfortune.  But  since  then  .  .  . 
now  . .  .  this  disappearance,  this  flight,  if  he  is  really  gone. .  .  . 
I  don't  know  what  to  think.  If  you  only  knew  the  things 
that  I  imagine! 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  167 

RUFINA.  What? 

ROSAKIO.  That  when  he  was  alone,  his  courage  dropped 
away,  and  he  fell  into  that  dejection  that  stifles  one's  energies, 
and  leads  to  despair,  and  bitterness,  and  anger. 

RUFINA.  Oh,  don't  believe  that. 

ROSABIO.  It  may  well  be  that  the  love  he  felt  for  me  has 
been  stifled  by  the  memory  of  the  harm  I  did  him. 

RUFINA.  Come,  come.  That  is  impossible.  I  can  sooner 
believe  that  his  feelings  have  been  affected  by  the  reports 
that  are  current  in  the  town. 

ROSAKIO.  That  I  am  going  to  marry  your  father?  Ridicu- 
lous gossip! 

RUFINA.  That  is  what  my  friends  were  talking  about  this 
afternoon,  and  every  one  I  met  on  the  way  home.  Now  of 
course,  if  Victor  believes  it  too  .  .  . 

ROSAKIO.  He  can't,  he  won't  believe  it.  Oh,  dear,  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  If  I  were  only  sure  he  received  the  letter 
I  wrote  to  him  yesterday ! 

RUFINA.  I  gave  it  to  the  teamster  at  the  factory,  and  I  am 
sure  he  is  searching  the  town  and  the  country  round  to  find 
him. 

ROSARIO.  Oh, I  hope  so!  Why  do  you  think  I  left  you  this 
afternoon  at  San  Roque,  when  you  were  talking  with  your 
friends?  I  thought  I  saw  him  in  the  crowd. 

RUFINA.  Victor? 

ROSARIO.  I  would  have  sworn  it  was  he.  I  ran  after  that 
face  that  appeared  for  a  moment  hi  the  shifting  mob.  It  was 
not  he.  With  a  sudden  impulse,  I  began  to  run  through  the 
whole  fair,  with  the  idea,  the  presentiment,  that  I  should  find 
him.  In  that  turbulent  throng,  through  the  excited  hubbub, 
I  made  my  way  rapidly — people  coming  and  going,  dancing 
here,  eating  there.  All,  old  and  young,  men  and  women, 
were  full  of  the  joy  of  living,  that  simple  gaiety  which  is 
unknown  to  us  who  have  been  born  and  have  lived  in  a 


168  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  m 

world  of  artificiality,  of  dry  and  empty  formalities,  like  pup- 
pets hung  on  wires.  And  I  was  seeking,  seeking,  seeking, 
with  anxious  eyes,  searching  the  sea  of  faces,  that  mass  of 
humanity  abounding  in  joy  and  flesh  and  blood  and  life. 
I  saw  weather-beaten  sailors,  with  the  look  of  the  sea  in  their 
eyes;  workmen's  faces,  marked  with  the  dust  of  the  mines; 
I  saw  farmers,  teamsters,  all  kinds  of  people,  but  among  all 
those  faces  I  did  not  find  the  one  I  sought.  And  I  was  so 
blindly  confident  that  the  Virgin  would  grant  me  what  I 
asked!  You  see,  it  was  such  a  little  tiling  I  wanted.  I  have 
been  very  unhappy.  I  have  lived  in  the  desert  of  fashionable 
life;  I  prayed  that  she  should  let  me  see  again  the  only  man 
who  ever  reached  my  heart — and  stayed  there. 

RUFINA.  Oh,  she  might  grant  you  that!  You  took  the 
wrong  path.  Instead  of  going  down  to  the  fair,  you  should 
have  gone  down  to  the  harbor. 

ROSAKIO.  I  did.  I  went  down  to  the  shore,  and  went  over 
it  from  the  ore-works  to  the  fishermen's  beach.  I  saw  three, 
four,  a  dozen  boats  arriving  from  the  other  shore,  their  masts 
gay  with  flags,  leaves,  and  masses  of  flowering  shrubs;  they 
were  filled  with  pilgrims,  all  bearing  branches  of  laurel  and 
garlands  of  flowers  to  offer  to  the  Virgin.  He  was  not  there, 
either.  And  those  people  arriving  so  gaily  as  if  they  thought 
they  had  discovered  a  new  world  as  soon  as  they  set  foot  on 
shore,  passed  close  to  my  great  grief  without  noticing  it. 
My  grief  is  so  small,  so  diminutive,  so  invisible  to  others — 
and  so  great  to  me! 

RUFINA.  Be  calm.  We  shall  surely  know  today.  For 
pity's  sake,  have  patience. 

ROSARIO.  That  is  just  what  I  can't  do.  Recommend  to 
me  all  the  virtues,  but  not  patience. 

RUFINA.  Take  care.     Here  are  father  and  grandfather. 
Enter  DON  JOSE,  leaning  on  DON  CESAR'S  arm. 

DON  JOSE.  Ah!   there  you  are.    Have  you  been  to  the  fair? 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS^  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  169 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  sir,  and  we  took  flowers  to  the  Virgin. 

RTJFINA.  And  we  prayed  to  her  to  give  you  both  good 
health. 

DON  CESAR.  To  me,  too?    Did  you  pray  for  me? 

ROSARIO.  Yes,  for  you,  too. 

DON  CESAR.  Thanks.  But  so  far  the  Virgin  has  not  paid 
any  attention  to  you,  for  I  am  no  better  today  than  yester- 
day. 

ROSARIO.  Our  Lady  of  the  Sea  is  not  very  generous  this 
year.  She  doesn't  grant  anything  we  ask. 

DON  JOSE.  Are  you  going  tonight  to  the  dance  at  the 
Casino? 

ROSARIO.  I'm  not. 

RUFINA.  If  we  wanted  to  go,  would  you  let  us,  grandfather? 

DON  JOSE.  My  dear  children,  I  am  not  the  one  who  com- 
mands here  now.  Do  you  know  what  I  have  decided  to  do? 

RUFINA  and  ROSARIO.   What? 

DON  JOSE.  Well,  considering  that  my  dear  son  disapproves 
of  the  authority  that  I  have  exercised  in  this  house  for  more 
than  half  a  century,  considering  that  he  is  determined  to 
follow  new  paths  which  are  not  to  my  liking,  I — abdicate. 

[He  sits  down. 

ROSARIO.  Do  you  really  mean  it? 

DON  JOSE.  [Seriously]  Yes,  and  there  is  something  more 
important,  which  I  ought  to  say  to  you  today,  and  which  he 
will  tell  you.  You  can  settle  it  yourselves.  [DoN  CESAR 
talks  with  ROSARIO,  aside;  DON  JOSE  with  RTJFINA]  He  in- 
sists upon  ruining  himself,  and  he  will. 

ROSARIO.  But,  Don  C£sar,  do  you  still  persist? 

DON  CESAR.  To  be  sure.  Persistence  is  my  only  virtue. 
Yes,  I  still  persist. 

ROSARIO.  In  spite  of  our  disagreeable  quarrel  the  other  day? 

DON  CESAR.  In  spite  of  all  quarrels,  past,  present,  and 
future. 


170  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  in 

ROSARIO.  I  thought  you  would  still  be  angry  with  me. 

DON  C&3AR.  Why?  Oh,  for  having  revealed  to  me  .  .  . 
On  the  contrary,  I  ought  to  be  grateful.  For  what  purpose 
or  reason  I  know  not,  you  saved  me  from  a  great  mistake. 
You  wounded  me,  but  you  told  me  the  truth,  and  say  what 
you  like,  one  should  always  be  thankful  for  the  truth.  You 
see  I  speak  frankly.  Imitate  my  frankness,  and  tell  me  ... 

ROSABIO.  [Displeased]  If  you  please,  we  will  leave  this  for 
another  occasion.  I  must  write  to  my  family — I  have  been 
very  neglectful. 

DON  CfisAR.  Cruel.    You  are  always  fleeing  from  me. 

ROSABIO.  Au  revoir.  [To  RUFINA]  Are  you  coming? 

[Exeunt,  right, 

DON  Josfe.  From  what  I  can  see,  her  disdain  does  not  cure 
you  of  your  mad  infatuation. 

DON  CissAR.  You  are  right:  blind  infatuation,  madness. 
I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  my  temperament,  my  character  to 
seek  to  overcome  obstacles,  especially  when  I  know  that 
they  are  more  affected  than  sincere.  She  is  simply  wild  to 
enrich  her  dried-up  aristocracy  with  the  prosperous,  if  lowly 
house  of  Buendia.  Only,  with  the  greatest  shrewdness  she 
dickers  over  her  consent,  to  get  a  better  bargain. 

DON  Josfe.  [Rising  angrily]  I  tell  you  .  .  . 

DON  C£SAR.  [Calmly]  Father,  have  you  abdicated  or 
not? 

DON  Josfe.  [Sitting  down]  Ah!    I  forgot.    Do  what  you 
like.     I  have  nothing  to  say.     I  have  withdrawn  from  the 
world,  and  from  my  humble  cell,  watching  my  own  funeral. 
,  I  shall  see  how  you  govern  alone. 

DON  CfesAR.  I  shall  rule  as  best  I  can. 

DON  Josfe.  I  shall  not  interfere  again  except  to  see  the 
fulfillment  of  one  of  the  last  acts  of  my  reign.  Tell  me,  will 
Canseco  be  here  soon? 

DON  CfesAK.  I  expect  him  any  moment. 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  171 

DON  JOSE.  And  he  will  tell  us  whether  that  poor  boy  ac- 
cepts or  not. 

DON  CESAR.  Do  you  doubt  it?  What  more  can  he  expect? 
I  don't  know.  We  are  giving  him,  for  love,  a  magnificent 
ship. 

DON  JOSE.  Yes,  rotten  in  every  timber,  like  us.  Well,  we 
shall  see  if  that  diligent  notary  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  [Approaching  the  back  as  if  to  give  some  orders] 
Talk  of  the  devil  .  .  .  here  he  is. 
Enter  CANSECO. 

DON  CESAR.  What  news? 

CANSECO.  [Pompously]  A  great,  a  stupendous  event. 

DON  CESAR.  Out  with  it. 

CANSECO.  Parenthetically,  [Shaking  DON  CESAR'S  hand, 
effusively]  accept  my  warmest  congratulations,  my  dear  Don 
Cesar. 

DON  CESAR.  What  for? 

CANSECO.  They  are  talking  of  nothing  else  all  over  town. 
It  will  be  a  happy  day  for  all  the  inhabitants  of  Ficobriga 
when  we  come  to  greet  the  new  Duke  of  San  Quentin. 

DON  CESAR.  Oh,  there  is  nothing  to  that  yet.  Maybe  .  .  . 
But  come,  my  friend,  what  about  .  .  .  ? 

DON  JOSE.  Have  you  seen  him? 

CANSECO.  Yes,  sir. 

DON  CESAR.  Where  has  he  been? 

CANSECO.  Prepare  for  a  great  surprise.  [Pause]  Are  you 
prepared? 

DON  CESAR.  Yes,  but  tell  us  ... 

DON  JOSE.  Where  is  he? 

CANSECO.  At  Saint  Mary's. 

DON  JOSE.  In  the  sanctuary? 

CANSECO.  In  the  rectory,  at  the  home  of  the  priest. 

DON  CESAR.  Father  Florencio? 

CANSECO.  Yes,  it  appears  they  are  great  friends. 


172  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  in 

RUFINA.  [Peeping  in  at  the  right,  hears  the  last  words]  Ah ! 
[She  goes  back  to  ROSARIO'S  room. 

DON  JOSE.  Did  you  speak  with  him? 

CANSECO.  Yes,  sir,  more  than  half  an  hour. 

DON  CESAR.  Of  course,  he  accepts  our  aid,  and  will  embark 
immediately. 

CANSECO.  Well,  he  has  not  agreed  specifically. 

DON  CESAR.  He  hasn't? 

DON  JOSE.  Well  .  .  . 

CANSECO.  Let  me  proceed  in  due  form.  He  told  me  that 
on  the  day  following  his  departure  from  this  house,  he  went 
to  Socartes,  summoned  by  a  Belgian  engineer,  a  friend  of 
his,  and  former  comrade  at  Liege. 

DON  CESAR.  Ah,  yes.  Trainard,  who  is  the  Belgian  con- 
sul here. 

CANSECO.  Accompanied  by  his  friend  and  his  friend's  wife, 
he  returned  here  this  morning. 

DON  CESAR.  And  what  else? 

CANSECO.  Why,  nothing.  .  .  .  He  requests  that  you  give 
him  an  interview,  and  I  have  come  in  his  name  to  ask  for  it. 

DON  JOSE.  An  interview,  here? 

DON  CESAR.  No,  no;  he  must  not  set  foot  here.  That 
would  be  the  last  straw.  .  .  .  Tell  him,  no,  no. 

CANSECO.  The  petitioner  instructed  me  to  say  that  he  has 
a  communication  of  the  greatest  importance  to  make  to  you. 

DON  CESAR.  Bah,  bah!     Tell  him  to  let  us  alone. 

CANSECO.  I  presume — of  course,  I  do  not  speak  of  my 
own  knowledge — that  it  has  something  to  do  with  the  sad 
revelation  made  by  the  Duchess.  And,  parenthetically, 
since  I  have  mentioned  the  lady's  name  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  What? 

CANSECO.  [Confidentially]  Well,  when  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation  the  name  of  the  Duchess  was  mentioned,  I  ob- 
served on  Victor's  face  an  expression,  an  emotion.  .  .  .  Well, 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  173 

...  I  understood  it  instantly.  My  natural  perspicacity  leads 
me  to  observe  and  read  such  things.  .  .  .  Clearly,  as  the  noble 
relative  of  the  house  of  Buendla  was  the  one  who  rectified 
that  serious  family  mistake,  it  is  perfectly  logical  that  the 
petitioner,  innocent  victim  of  the  declaration  of  the  deponent, 
should  have  conceived  a  violent  hatred  for  her.  It  is  proper 
that  you  should  be  warned. 

DON  CESAB.  What?    Would  he  dare  . . .  ? 

DON  JOSE.  I  don't  believe  it. 

CANSECO.  Have  him  arrested  and  taken  to  Segura.  Let 
us  with  wise  prevention  forestall  any  diabolical  plot  that 
his  desire  for  vengeance  may  have  conceived. 

DON  CESAR.  Oh,  it  is  impossible. 

CANSECO.  I  do  not  affirm.  ...  I  suspect.  The  natural 
pessimism  of  an  officer  of  justice  who  has  seen  much 
villainy.  And,  parenthetically,  what  do  you  reply  to 
his  request? 

DON  JOSE.  It  is  for  you  to  say. 

DON  CESAB.  I  told  you  no,  absolutely. 
ROSARIO  and  RUFINA  enter,  right. 

ROSAKIO.  [From  the  door]  Is  it  a  secret,  what  you  are  say- 
ing? 

DON  CESAB.  No,  come  in. 

CANSECO.  [Advancing  to  greet  her}  Dear  lady  .  .  .  [Offi- 
ciously and  mysteriously]  Have  no  fear. 

ROSABIO.  Fear! 

CANSECO.  You  are  quite  safe.  There  is  no  danger.  We 
are  all  here  to  watch  over  your  precious  life.  The  only  pre- 
caution you  can  take  is  not  to  leave  the  house  until  .  .  . 

DON  CESAB.  But  if  the  petitioner,  as  you  say,  is  to  leave 
Ficobriga  soon  anyway.  Why  it  would  be  absurd  .  .  . 

ROSARIO.  Ah!  I  know  whom  you  are  speaking  of. 

DON  CESAB.  And  now  he  comes  with  the  ridiculous  re- 
quest that  we  grant  him  an  interview. 


174  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  m 

CANSECO.  An  audience,  here. 

DON  JOSE.  He  wants  us  to  give  him  something  more. 
RUFINA.  Let  him  come,  grandfather. 
DON  JOSE.  I  have  nothing  to  say.    He  will  decide. 
DON  CESAR.  Receive  him  here!    In  my  house! 
RUFINA.  Papa,  receive  him.    What  difference  does  it  make 
to  you?  [To  CANSECO]  Where  is  he? 

CANSECO.  He  is  close  by.  He  came  with  me  as  far  as  the 
door,  and  is  now  in  the  square  awaiting  the  decision. 

ROSABIO.  [Aside  to  RUFINA]  Quick,  go  and  call  him.  [Exit 
RUFINA,  back]  As  a  matter  of  conscience,  Don  C£sar,  re- 
membering the  important  part  I  played  in  the  lamentable 
affair,  I  am  obliged  to  intercede  for  the  unfortunate  victim. 
Gentlemen,  you  are  noble  and  generous;  you  owe  it  to  your- 
selves to  hear  him  at  least,  and  find  out  what  he  asks. 

DON  CESAR.  [Excusing  himself]  Rosario,  I  am  very  sorry 
to  ... 

RUFINA.  [Enters  quickly,  back]  Here  he  is. 
ROSARIO.  Let  him  come  in. 
DON  CESAR.  You  demand  it? 
ROSARIO.  And  you  consent. 
DON  CESAR.  Wrell,  so  be  it. 

All  sit  down.    DON  JOSE  at  the  right,  having  on  his 
right,  RUFINA,  on  his  left,  ROSARIO;   opposite  DON 
CESAR,  with  CANSECO  at  his  side.     The  center  of 
the  stage  is  empty.    VICTOR  appears  in  the  door  at 
the  back;  his  dress  is  that  of  a  gentleman,  but  un- 
ostentatious.   He  stops  for  a  moment  in  the  door, 
awaiting  an  invitation  to  enter. 
DON  JOSE.  Come  in.  [VICTOR  does  not  move] 
RUFINA.  Grandfather  says  to  come  in. 

[VICTOR  advances  and  bows  gravely  to  the  two  groups. 
ROSARIO.  [.4sicfc]  How  my  heart  beats!     I  must  control 
myself. 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  175 

CANSECO.  You  see,  these  gentlemen  have  yielded  to  my 
persuasion,  and  consented  to  receive  you  in  this  house. 

VICTOR.  I  am  very  grateful  for  their  kindness.  I  shall 
return  it  by  making  this  visit  as  short  as  possible,  for  I 
realize  that  my  presence  cannot  be  agreeable  to  all  the  mem- 
bers of  this  household. 

RUFINA.  [Zn  a  low  tone,  to  VICTOR]  Sit  down. 

VICTOR.  Thank  you,  no. 

DON  CESAR.  [Alarmed]  What  did  he  say? 

VICTOR.  Your  daughter  invited  me  to  be  seated,  and  I  re- 
plied that  it  does  not  tire  me  to  stand. 

DON  CESAR.  Very  well.  Now  if  you  desire  to  be  brief,  so 
do  I.  I  will  save  your  time  by  saying  in  advance  that  if  the 
assistance  which  you  desire,  in  addition  to  the  ship,  is  reason- 
able .  .  . 

VICTOR.  Oh!  I  am  not  asking  for  assistance.  I  do  not 
need  it.  Poor  and  nameless,  alone  in  the  world,  I  shall  be 
able  to  find  some  spring  in  the  midst  of  the  desert  that  sur- 
rounds me.  Gentlemen,  you  can  give  me  no  assistance,  nor 
can  I  accept  any.  An  error  brought  us  together.  The  truth, 
or  an  appearance  of  truth,  has  separated  us  forever.  Don 
Ce"sar,  I  break  off  all  relations  with  you,  leaving  you  only  my 
gratitude,  since  to  you  I  owe  my  education,  the  little  that  I 
know,  the  little  that  I  am. 

DON  JOSE.  [To  ROSARIO]  Not  bad. 

ROSARIO.  No  indeed. 

DON  CESAR.  Then  .  .  . 

CANSECO.  [Aside  to  DON  CESAR]  He  is  not  asking  for  help. 
Shall  I  tell  him  to  be  seated? 

DON  CESAR.  No.  [To  VICTOR]  Then  what  do  you  want? 
I  don't  understand.  Have  done,  for  your  presence  is  torture 
to  me.  The  sight  of  you,  unfortunately,  plunges  me  into  a 
mad  frenzy.  You  are  innocent  of  the  harm  that  you  have 
done  me,  and  still  I  cannot  love  ydu;  you  represent  my  dis- 


176  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  in 

appointment,  and  still  I  cannot  hate  you.  To  relieve  me  of 
this  horrible  recollection,  it  is  necessary  that  you  go  away, 
[Rises]  a  long,  long  way,  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

CANSECO.  [Forcing  'him  to  sit  down]  Calm  yourself,  my 
friend.  Don't  excite  yourself  unnecessarily.  I  will  continue 
for  you.  [To  VICTOR]  The  important  thing,  sir,  is  that  you 
should  leave  Fic6briga,  and  Spain, — and  Europe.  To  that 
end,  the  generous  gentlemen  in  whose  name  I  speak,  offer  you 
a  magnificent  ship. 

DON  JOSE.  Ah!  Here  is  where  I  come  in.  This  belongs  to 
my  reign.  Victor,  tell  me  simply  whether  you  are  willing  to 
embark  for  the  United  States  on  the  ship  which  I  give  you. 

CANSECO.  That's  it. 

VICTOR.  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  the  offer  of  the  venerable 
patriarch,  and  for  the  interest  which  he  takes  in  me.  But  I 
do  not  accept  it;  I  cannot  accept.  [All  are  astonislied. 

ROSARIO.  [Aside,  with  emotion]  What  noble  pride!  I  love 
you  for  it. 

DON  JOSE.  Do  you  mean  that?    What  reason  .  .  .  ? 

RUFINA.  [^4sw£e]  Good!    He  will  stay  here. 

ROSARIO.  That  is  quite  natural.  Victor  does  not  wish  to 
withdraw  from  useful  commerce  a  ship  so  handsome,  so 
strong  and  safe. 

VICTOR.  The  principal  reason  is  that  I  will  die  rather 
than  accept  from  this  family,  which  I  respect,  the  value 
of  a  pin. 

CANSECO.  Come,  come. 

DON  CESAR.  [Aside]  What's  that? 

DON  Josfc.  Then  what  do  you  want  of  us?  What  have 
you  come  for? 

VICTOR.  To  ask  a  question  of  Don  C6sar. 

DON  CESAR.  Of  me! 

ROSARIO.  [.4  side]  Now  we  have  it! 

VlCTOB.  I  desire  that  Don  C6sar  affirm  or  deny  what  the 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  177 

notary  here  present  has  told  me — a  report,  moreover,  which 
is  current  throughout  the  town. 

CANSECO.  [-4swfe]  I  see. 

DON  CESAR.  What? 

DON  JOSE.  What? 

VICTOR.  [To  DON  CESAR]  I  desire  to  know  whether  it  is 
true  that  you  have  proposed  marriage  to  the  Duchess  of  San 
Quentin. 

DON  CESAR.  [Alarmed  and  angry]  You  . . .  You  . . .  What's 
that  to  you? 

DON  JOSE.  How  dare  you? 

DON  CESAR.  Why,  you  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  I,  I.  I  ask  you  if  your  proposal  is  a  fact,  be- 
cause, I  tell  you  now,  I  declare  it  to  all  of  you,  I  oppose  it. 

DON  CESAR  and  DON  JOSE.  You! 

VICTOR.  Yes,  I,  with  all  the  will  and  determination  I 
possess,  I  protest.  The  reason  is  very  simple.  I  love 
Rosario. 

Astonishment.    DON  JOSE  and  DON  CESAR  jump  to 
their  feet. 

DON  JOSE.  Good  Lord! 

RUFINA.  [Aside]  Heavens! 

DON  CESAR.  Disgraceful!  Be  silent,  you  wretch!  [Look- 
ing at  ROSARIO  and  VICTOR,  wildly]  Rosario!  Victor!  Hor- 
rible, horrible!  And  you  are  silent,  you  do  not  protest! 

DON  JOSE.  [To  ROSARIO,  sitting  down  again}  But  you  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  Begone  from  here.  Rosario,  crush  him  with 
your  scorn. 

DON  JOSE.  Come,  girl,  speak. 

RUFINA.  {Going  around  to  ROSARIO'S  side}  Answer,  Rosario. 
[RosARio  remains  seated,  motionless  and  silent. 

DON  CESAR.  But  you  ...  at  least . . .  Are  you  not  indignant 
that  this  unfortunate  .  .  .  ?  [Seized  by  a  horrible  suspicion] 
Perhaps  .  .  .  God,  what  an  idea!  [Overcome  by  the  thought] 


178  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  m 

Say  that  this  suspicion  which  has  come  into  my  head  is 
absurd.  .  .  .  Speak  quickly! 

RUFINA.  Speak. 

VICTOR.  [Imploring]  Speak,  in  heaven's  name. 

DON  JOSE.  Come,  what  have  you  to  say? 

ROSARIO.  [Rises.  All  are  expectant.  Pause.  In  a  solemn 
tone  she  speaks  as  follows]  I  am  of  noble  race,  born  in  the  high- 
est rank.  As  a  child,  they  taught  me  to  recite  the  names  of 
great  men,  princes,  kings,  whose  heroic  virtues  adorned  the 
history  of  my  family.  Well,  my  noble  birth,  the  tradition  of 
my  race,  the  spiritual  bond  which  unites  my  present  humble 
state  to  the  grandeur  of  my  ancestors,  makes  it  incumbent 
upon  me  to  proceed  in  all  the  circumstances  of  life  in  accord- 
ance with  the  eternal  dictates  of  honor,  of  justice,  of  con- 
science. I  deprived  this  man  of  all  the  riches  of  the  earth. 
He  believes  that  my  hand  is  the  only  compensation  for  his 
ill-fortune,  and  I  give  it  to  him,  and  with  it  my  heart  and  soul. 

[Goes  to  VICTOR'S  side. 

DON  CESAR.  [Beside  himself]  Him,  love  him!     Impossible! 

VICTOR.  [Proudly]  She  loves  me,  me  alone. 

DON  JOSE.  [Praying]  In  the  name  of  the  Father  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  [Overcome,  drops  into  his  chair]  I  must  be 
crazy.  The  world  is  coming  to  an  end,  the  universe  is  break- 
ing into  a  thousand  pieces.  The  descendant  of  kings  .  .  . 
the  nameless  son  of  Sarah!  An  impossible  alliance!  Lucifer 
himself  must  have  had  a  hand  in  it.  Oh,  no!  Tell  me  it  is  a 
dream,  a  lie! 

CANSECO.  Be  calm,  my  dear  Don  Ce'sar,  compose  yourself. 

VICTOR.  Forgive  me,  it  is  not  my  fault. 

DON  CESAR.  You  have  invaded  my  house,  you  have  robbed 
me,  carried  off  my  hope,  my  happiness.  I  thank  God  for 
showing  me  that  you  are  not  my  son! 

[CANSECO  tries  to  calm  DON  CESAR. 

DON  JOSE.  [Severely,  talcing  ROSARIO   by  the  hand]  Dis- 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  179 

turber  of  my  home,  even  if  my  son's  madness  deserves  this 
disillusionment,  yours  deserves  the  madhouse. 

ROSABIO.  Yes,  my  dear  patriarch.  Victor  and  I  are  two 
maniacs  who  are  about  to  enter  upon  the  incredible  adventure 
of  seeking  life  and  happiness  in  ourselves. 

DON  CESAR.  [To  CANSECO,  anxiously]  What  are  they 
saying? 

CANSECO.  [To  DON  CESAR]  She  admits  that  she  is  crazy. 

DON  CESAR.  [.4tom?]  And  she  throws  her  ducal  coronet 
in  the  mud. 

ROSARIO.  My  ducal  coronet!  The  gold  of  which  it  was 
composed  crumbled  to  powder,  to  a  fine,  almost  impalpable 
flour.  I  mixed  it  with  the  milk  of  truth  and  from  that  re- 
fined and  delicate  mass  I  have  made  the  bread  of  life. 

DON  JOSE.  And  now,  Victor,  since  you  are  not  going  to 
America  .  .  . 

VICTOR.  I  am  going. 

DON  JOSE  and  RUFINA.  And  you? 

ROSARIO.  I  shall  go  too.  To  complete  his  existence,  he 
needs  a  family,  a  well-ordered  and  tranquil  home,  the  affec- 
tion and  companionship  of  a  woman — and  I  shall  be  that 
woman,  here,  or  in  the  uttermost  corner  of  the  earth. 

VICTOR.  [Embracing  her]  Which  will  be  a  heaven  for  me. 

DON  JOSE.  Praised  be  the  infinite  Mercy! 

VICTOR.  Yes;  ask  heaven's  favor  for  those  poor  emigrants. 

DON  CESAR.  [To  CANSECO]  What  are  they  saying?  What 
are  they  talking  about? 

CANSECO.  Nothing.  It  seems  they  are  going  together  to 
the  other  world.  [DoN  CESAR  listens  to  what  follows. 

VICTOR.  Through  the  influence  of  a  Belgian  engineer,  a 
friend  of  mine,  I  am  going  to  an  industrial  district  in  the  state 
of  Pennsylvania,  as  an  emigrant.  They  require  that  I  take 
my  family,  and  here  it  is.  We  embark  on  the  Royal  Mail 
steamer,  which  stops  at  this  port. 


180  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  ACT  in 

HUFINA.  She  arrives  tonight. 

VICTOR.  And  leaves  tomorrow. 

DON  CESAR.  [Wildly]  She  goes  away  with  him.  .  .  .  She 
loves  him!  Hell  raised  on  high,  to  the  zenith,  and  heaven 
plunged  into  the  depths  of  the  abyss! 

DON  JOSE.  You  can't  go  away  like  that. 

RUFINA.  You  have  no  time  to  get  married. 

DON  JOSE.  Wait,  and  .  .  . 

ROSABIO.  After  what  has  happened,  I  cannot  remain  here 
an  instant. 

RUFINA.  Where  will  you  go? 

VICTOR.  The  Belgian  consul  and  his  good  wife  will  receive 
us,  and  will  be  the  witnesses  of  our  wedding. 

ROSARIO.  That  solves  it. 

VICTOR.  [With  emotion,  drawing  ROSARIO  to  him]  Come, 
my  life,  my  dream,  my  inspiration. 

CANSECO.  [Approaching  the  group  in  the  center]  It  is  better 
that  you  should  withdraw. 

ROSARIO.  [To  DON  JOSE]  Good-bye. 

DON  JOSE.  [Sadly]  Farewell,  my  daughter.  [ROSARIO  and 
RUFINA,  in  the  center  of  the  stage,  kiss  each  other  affectionately, 
and  remain  for  a  moment  in  close  embrace.  Then  RUFINA 
bids  farewell  to  VICTOR,  who  embraces  her.  During  this  mute 
scene,  DON  JOSE,  taking  CANSECO'S  hand,  says  to  him]  Ah! 
what  desolation  in  my  home!  My  son  half  mad;  my  grand- 
daughter to  become  a  nun  when  I  pass  on.  ...  So  ends  this 
family. 

CANSECO.  And  all  your  care  and  labor  comes  to  naught. 

DON  JOSE.  [To  RUFINA,  who,  after  the  farewells,  returns  to 
his  side,  weeping]  You  are  crying? 

RUFINA.  Yes,  I  love  them  both. 

DON  JOSE.  My  son  .  .  .  C6sar  .  .  . 

DON  CESAR.  [Rising,  angrily]  Let  this  horrible  nightmare 
come  to  an  end.  [To  ROSARIO  and  VICTOR]  Begone  from  here! 


ACT  in  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN  181 

[As  if  seeking  consolation  at  his  father's  side]  Father,  it  is  all 
over  for  me.  I  have  no  illusion,  no  hope  but  death. 

DON  JOSE.  Come  here.  [He  throws  one  arm  around  Ru- 
FINA  and  the  other  around  DON  CESAR,  forming  a  group]  Let 
us  stand  close  together,  that  our  loneliness  may  be  less  sad. 

RUFINA.  They  are  going  away  forever. 

VICTOR.  Over  the  sea,  to  a  new  world. 

ROSARIO.  Let  us  turn  our  backs  on  the  rums  of  this  one. 
They  go  to  the  door  at  the  back,  turn,  arm  in  arm,  toward 
the  stage  and  wave  their  free  hands  joyously. 

ROSARIO  and  VICTOR.  [Together  in  firm,  clear  voice] 
Good-bye! 

DON  CESAR.  They  have  gone.    It  is  the  death  of  a  world. 

DON  JOSE.  No,  my  children,  it  is  the  birth  of  a  world. 

Curtain. 


ANGEL   GUIMERA 

ANGEL  GUIMERA  was  born  in  Catalonia,  but  went  as  a 
young  man  to  Barcelona,  where  he  has  since  remained.  He 
soon  became  identified  with  the  nationalist  and  separatist 
movements  of  Catalonia,  and  has  always,  at  first  through 
the  medium  of  a  periodical,  then,  more  or  less  directly, 
through  the  medium  of  his  plays,  preached  nationality  and 
separation.  After  Guimera's  astonishing  success  with  "Maria 
Rosa,"  his  plays  were  translated — by  Echegaray — into 
Spanish  and  played  in  Madrid,  many  of  them  by  the  famous 
Guerrero  and  Mendoza  company.  Of  late  years,  however, 
for  political  reasons,  Guimera  has  not  been  popular  outside 
his  native  province,  where  he  is  held  in  reverence  by  his  fol- 
lowers. So  great  is  his  belief  in  nationalism  that  he  never 
writes  nor  speaks  in  Spanish. 


CHRONOLOGICAL   LIST   OF   THE 
PLAYS    OF   ANGEL   GUIMERA 

GalaPlacidia 1879 

Judith  deWelp 1883 

Lo  Fill  del  Key 1886 

Mar  y  Cel 1888 

Rey  y  Monjo 1890 

LaBoja 1890 

L'Anima  Morta 1892 

EnPolvora 1893 

Jesus  de  Nazareth 1894 

Maria  Rosa       1894 

Las  Monjas  de  Sant  Ayman 1895 

La  Feste  del  Blat        1896 

Terra  Baixa  (Tierra  Baja)1 1896 

Mosseu  Janot 1898 

La  Farsa       1899 

La  Eilla  del  Mar 1900 

Arran  de  Terra  (Schivolando  culla  Terra)2     ....  1901 

La  Pecadora 1902 

Aygua  que  corre 1902 

Lo  Caml  del  Sol 1904 

Andr6nica 1905 

SolSolet 1905 

LaMiralta 1905 

1  Terra  Baixa  was  translated  as  Maria  of  the  Lowlands  by  Wallace 
Gillpatrick,  with  an  introduction  by  John  Garrett  Underbill  (Drama 
League  Series,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York,  1914). 

2  Originally  produced  hi  Italian . 


CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST  186 

L'Eloy 190G 

La  Santa  Espina 1907 

La  Reyne  Vella 1908 

LaAranya 1908 

SaynctTrist 1910 

Titayna 1910 

La  Reyna  Jove 1911 

References:  Introduction  to  Marta  of  the  Lowlands; 
Manuel  Bueno,  Teatro  Espanol  contempordneo  (Biblioteca 
Renacimiento,  Madrid,  1909);  Joseph  Yxart,  Prolech  d  las 
Poesias  de  Angel  Guimerd,  2d  ed.,  Barcelona,  1905;  La 
Escena  Catalana,  Barcelona,  1906  et  seq. 


DANIELA 

(La  Pecadora) 

A  DRAMA   IN  THREE  ACTS 
BY  ANGEL  GUIMERA 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED 

DANIELA 

ANTONIA 

MONSA 

TOMASETA 

PONA 

HUGUETTE 

JEANNE 

ANNA 

RAMON 

DON  JOAQUIM 

M.  ALBERT 

RICHARD 

MAX 

ANDREW 

VALENTINE 

MICHAEL 

Four  girls,  playmates  of  ANNA;   also  Village  People,  Men, 
Women  and  Children 

The  time  is  the  present.     The  scene  is  laid  in  the  mountains 
of  northern  Spain. 


ACT  I 

Entrance  katt  of  a  farm-house  on  the  outskirts  of  a  small  moun- 
tain village.  A  door  to  the  right  and  another  to  the  left. 
At  the  rear  on  the  right  a  door  opens  upon  the  highway; 
at  the  rear  on  the  left  a  second  door  opens  upon  a  broad 
step  or  landing.  A  staircase  ascends  from  this  to  the 
second  story,  and  beneath  it  are  placed  a  table  and  chairs. 
Through  the  outer  door  a  number  of  whitewashed  houses 
may  be  seen.  Midday. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  the  stage  is  empty.  The  sound  of  a 
cradle,  rocking,  comes  from  the  right  and  a  woman's  voice 
is  heard  singing: 

Mother  of  God,  a  little  child 

Is  laid  upon  thy  breast, 
Best  of  the  blessings  of  the  world 

And  of  life's  joys  the  best. 

Rest,  little  baby,  rest! 
Rest!    Rest! 

After  a  moment,  RAMON  enters  by  the  main  door,  fol- 
lowed by  VALENTINE  and  MICHAEL.  The  song  con- 
tinues a  little  longer. 

RAMON.  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  Of  course  nothing  has 
been  done.  [To  VALENTINE]  I  told  you  to  be  ready  before 
twelve  o'clock. 

VALENTINE.  Humph!  We  will  be  soon  enough;  we  began 
cleaning  the  pens  and  getting  the  corrals  ready  for  the  sheep 
before  daylight. 

189 


190  DANIEL  A  ACT  i 

RAMON.  Before  daylight?  You  did  nothing  until  then? 
Is  this  the  way  to  set  an  example  to  the  men?  What  have 
you  been  doing  all  this  time? 

VALENTINE.  Oh,  going  on  with  the  spading  and  setting 
out  the  tomatoes;  they  were  all  broken  down  with  the  rain. 

RAMON.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  clean  the  pens  out  first?  Sup- 
pose the  sheep  had  come  last  night? 

VALENTINE.  They  didn't  come. 

RAMON.  But  suppose  they  had. 

VALENTINE.  They  didn't,  just  the  same. 

RAMON.  But  they  will  come. 

VALENTINE.  Yes,  and  the  pens  will  then  be  clean. 

RAMON.  They  will  be  clean!  The  pens  will  then  be  clean! 
About  it,  man,  about  it!  Here,  Michael,  boy!  Run  along, 
run  along!  To  work!  To  work! 

MICHAEL.  [Withcmt  moving]  To  work — hungry? 

[He  looks  wistfully  toward  the  door  on  the  left. 

RAMON.  [To  VALENTINE]  Has  any  one  been  in  since  I  went 
away? 

VALENTINE.  No  one — that  is,  no  one  except  the  doctor. 
Nobody's  sick,  though. 

RAMON.  [To  MICHAEL]  What!    Are  you  still  here? 

MICHAEL.  I — I — haven't  had  my  dinner  yet. 

RAMON.  I  haven't  had  mine  either.  Run  along!  When 
there  is  work  to  do,  about  it! 

MICHAEL.  Without  my  dinner? 

RAMON.  Pst!    As  if  I  didn't  hear  you! 

Exit  MICHAEL,  running  out  at  the  back.    ANNA  enters 
from  the  right. 

ANNA.  Papa!  [Running  up  to  him]  Papa! 

RAMON.  [To  VALENTINE]  Have  they  sent  for  the  wine  by 
Sumell? 

ANNA.  Papa!    Papa! 

[RAMON  runs  his  hand  carelessly  through  her  hair. 


ACT  i  DAN  IE  LA  191 

VALENTINE.  Oh,  the  wine?    Yes,  they  sent  for  the  wine. 

RAMON.  Then  why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  it?  Ola,  man! 
When  I  ask  you  who's  been  here,  you  stand  there  like  a  block- 
head, tilting  back  on  your  heels,  without  so  much  as  opening 
your  mouth. 

ANNA.  [Running  to  the  door  on  the  right]  Mamma!   Mamma! 

VALENTINE.  Of  course  they  sent  for  the  wine. 

ANNA.  [Calling]  Here's  papa! 

RAMON.  Who  stood  by  and  saw  it  was  measured  out? 

ANTONIA   enters.     She   goes    straight    up   to   RAMON. 
ANNA  follows,  jumping  up  and  down. 

ANNA.  Papa!    Papa! 

VALENTINE.  Why,  I  did;  I  never  moved  from  the  spot. 

ANTONIA.  [To  RAMON]  How  have  you  been  getting  on? 

RAMON.  Well,  Antonia.  [To  VALENTINE]  And  who  kept 
the  count?  How  many  skins  did  it  make? 

ANTONIA.  [Dusting  off  RAMON  with  her  hand]  You  are  all 
covered  with  dust. 

VALENTINE.  Anna  kept  the  count. 

RAMON.  Anna?  [To  ANTONIA]  So  we've  been  trusting  to 
a  child,  have  we?  That  is  the  way  things  are  done  in  this 
house. 

ANTONIA.  I  kept  an  eye  on  her,  Ramon. 

ANNA.  I  made  a  little  dot  for  every  skin. 

ANTONIA.  The  poor  dear! 

RAMON.  Antonia,  I've  just  bought  two  droves  of  sheep. 
They'll  be  up  from  the  village  this  afternoon. 

ANTONIA.  I  hope  they  won't  turn  out  like  those  that  you 
bought  last  year. 

RAMON.  No  fear  of  that.  It  would  take  somebody  to  cheat 
me  now,  I  can  tell  you.  I  have  eyes  in  my  head.  A  man 
doesn't  have  to  learn  a  hundred  times.  That  old  miser,  Par- 
dinas,  came  down  from  the  village — he  knows  a  sheep  from 
a  goat  when  he  sees  one — and  he  was  looking  over  the  flock. 


192  DANIEL  A  ACT  i 

As  soon  as  he  turned  his  back  for  a  moment,  up  I  stepped, 
and  before  he  knew  it  I  had  struck  a  bargain  for  the  lot. 
It  didn't  take  me  long,  I  can  tell  you. 

ANTONIA.  It  won't  take  you  long  to  want  to  get  rid  of  them, 
either. 

RAMON.  [Preoccupied]  Where  is  the  boy? 
ANTONIA.  In  the  cradle.     He  cried  all  night. 
RAMON.  Let  me  see  the  wine  count. 
ANTONIA.  Valentine.    Where  is  the  wine  count? 

VALENTINE  makes  a  gesture,  indicating  that  lie  does  not 

know. 

ANNA.  Didn't  you  bring  me  anything,  father? 
RAMON.  Where  is  the  count?    It  is  never  safe  for  a  man  to 
go  away  from  home.    Everything  is   at  sixes  and  sevens. 
Santisimat    The  count?     I  won't  put  up  .with  it  any  longer. 
And  then  they  wonder  that  a  man  has  a  temper! 

ANTONIA  and  VALENTINE  run  about  looking  for  the 
count,  opening  the  drawers  of  the  table,  looking  in  the 
closets,  and  in  every  place  conceivable. 
ANNA  retires  to  a  corner  and  begins  to  play  with  an  old 

ragged  dott. 

ANTONIA.  Mercy!    But  we'll  find  it.    He's  in  a  fine  temper. 
RAMON.  That's  it.    In  a  temper!    lam  in  a  temper!    Can't 
you  keep  your  heads? 

VALENTINE.  We'll  find  it,  man. 

RAMON.  That  fellow  will  drive  me  mad.  [To  ANTONIA] 
And  you,  too,  running  about  the  house  like  the  rest  of  them, 
as  if  you  had  nothing  at  all  to  think  about — as  if  you  were  all 
millionaires! 
ANTONIA.  Millionaires? 

RAMON.  [Pounding  on  the  table]  The  count,  I  say!    Why 
don't  you  find  the  count? 

ANTONIA.  Do  you  know  where  the  count  is,  child? 
ANNA.  What  count?  [RAMON  continues  to  pound  on  the  table. 


ACT  i  DANIELA  193 

ANTONTA.  The  count  of  the  wine  by  Sumell. 

ANNA.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  mamma. 

[She  draws  the  paper  from  her  pocket,  all  crumpled  up. 

ANTONIA.  Praise  be  to  God! 

RAMON.  Give  it  to  me. 

[Taking  it  from  ANTONIA,  he  begins  to  read. 

VALENTINE.  [To  RAMON]  Now  I  remember.  I  gave  it  to 
her  myself. 

RAMON.  [Abstractedly]  You  did?  So.  Go  out  and  mind 
the  sheep.  [Exit  VALENTINE  at  the  rear. 

ANTONIA.  [To  ANNA]  Was  there  ever  such  a  pother? 

ANNA.  [To  ANTONIA]  He  never  brought  one  thing  for  me. 
MONSA  enters. 

MONSA.  Good  -  morning,  Antonia.  [Seeing  RAMON]  So 
Ramon's  home  again? 

ANTONIA.  [Excusing  herself]  Just  a  minute,  Monsa.  [To 
RAMON]  I  have  something  to  tell  you. 

RAMON.  [With  the  count]  Let  me  run  through  this  first. 
Here  are  twenty  loads — correct;  not  a  penny  more,  not  a 
penny  less.  Ca!  Who  would  ever  have  expected  it  would 
have  turned  out  so,  trusting  to  a  child? 

ANTONIA.  I  told  you  I  was  by. 

ANNA.  I  did  just  as  I  was  told,  mamma. 

[RAMON  continues  to  run  through  the  paper. 

ANTONIA.  Of  couise  you  did. 

MONSA.  That  child  has  sense.  I'd  take  her  to  help  me  with 
the  school,  Antonia,  if  she  were  only  a  little  bit  older. 

RAMON.  To  help  with  the  school,  would  you?  You  would 
be  a  likely  one  to  teach  her.  What  do  you  know,  anyway? 
Because  we  send  the  children  to  you,  you  think  you  must  be 
wise.  Huh!  She'd  turn  out  a  simpleton  like  yourself. 

ANTONIA.  That's  a  nice  way  to  talk  to  Monsa.  When  the 
baby  was  sick,  she  came  here  and  gave  up  everything  to 
help  us. 


194  DAN  I  EL  A  ACT  i 

MONSA.  I  don't  mind  what  he  says. 

ANTONIA.  You  oughtn't  to  be  so  rough,  either,  with  the 
child.  She  loves  her  father. 

RAMON.  Have  I  nothing  to  do  but  listen  to  you  talk? 
What  a  mess!  I  have  been  gone  four  days,  and  when  I  come 
home  everything  is  wrong.  [He  goes  toward  the  door  at  the 
rear,  pacing  up  and  down,  examining  the  account]  What 
a  mess! 

MONSA.  Don't  mind  him,  Antonia. 

[The  two  women  converse  apart. 

RAMON.  [Aside,  still  pacing  up  and  down]  What?  They 
haven't  checked  the  count?  Here,  there  are  four  skins  short. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  mess? 

ANTONIA.  [Leading  MONSA  aside]  He's  not  well  today. 

MONSA.  [To  ANTONIA]  What  difference  does  it  make? 

RAMON.  [In  a  low  voice]  Pst!  Anna,  Anna. 

[The  child  runs  up  to  him. 

ANNA.  Father! 

RAMON.  [Aside,  still  pacing  up  and  down]  What  a  mess! 
Women,  women!  [He  kisses  ANNA]  They  are  no  use  at  all. 
I'm  off  to  the  corrals. 

He  disappears.     ANTONIA  retires  for  a  moment  to  the 
room  at  the  right.     MONSA  stands  looking  after  her. 

ANTONIA.  I  wanted  to  see  whether  the  baby  was  asleep. 

MONSA.  He's  such  a  good  child. 

[ANNA  begins  to  play  again  with  the  doll. 

ANTONIA.  It  will  be  no  miracle  if  he  takes  after  his  father. 

MONSA.  He  is  very  fond  of  us  all. 

ANTONIA.  Of  course;  but  he's  wrapped  up  in  his  work. 
TOMASETA  enters. 

TOMASETA.  I  just  ran  in  to  hear  the  news  about  Daniela. 

ANTONIA.  Yes.    I  suppose  everybody  will  be  coming  now. 

MONSA.  Poor  Daniela! 

ANTONIA.  How  did  you  hear  about  it? 


ACT  i  DANIELA  195 

TOMASETA.  Valentine  told  Andrew,  the  shoemaker,  while 
he  was  working  on  his  shoes. 

ANTONIA.  Andrew  the  shoemaker  is  a  cobbler  of  gossip. 

TOMASETA.  What  do  you  mean? 

ANTONIA.  [To  MONSA]  Some  foolishness  of  Valentine's. 
PONA  enters. 

PONA.  I  am  so  busy  today  that  I  really  haven't  any  time. 

TOMASETA.  So  am  I.    We  are  whitewashing  our  house. 

PONA.  I  had  to  hear,  though,  about  Daniela. 

ANTONIA.  Well,  it  seems  she's  alive.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  about  that — though  for  a  long  time  we  never  heard  a 
word  of  her. 

PONA.  Valentine  says  that  you've  just  had  word. 
ANDREW  enters,  Carrying  an  unfinished  shoe. 

ANDREW.  What  does  Ramon  say  about  Daniela? 

ANTONIA.  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  speak  to  him  yet. 
You  see  we  really  don't  know  anything  at  all  about  her. 

MONSA.  [Simply]  They  were  so  fond  of  each  other — 
Ramon  and  Daniela. 

TOMASETA.  [Leaving  the  door]  I  was  looking  for  Ram6n 
so  as  to  be  able  to  get  out  in  time.  He  says  that  women  are 
a  nuisance  in  this  house. 

ANTONIA.  Sit  down  a  minute  and  I'll  try  to  tell  you  every- 
thing I  know.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  was  standing  out  by 
the  gate,  when  all  of  a  sudden  in  comes  the  Doctor,  and  be- 
gins straight  off  to  tell  me  about  some  letter  which  he  had 
just  received  from  a  French  doctor  who  wanted  to  know  if 
this  place  was  healthy;  because  he  had  a  patient,  a  woman 
who  had  come  from  here,  and  who  was  sick,  and  who  wanted 
to  come  home  again  to  see  if  she  could  regain  her  health. 

ANDREW.  Was  that  all? 

ANTONIA.  I  don't  think  there  was  anything  more. 

ANDREW.  Hm!  But  how  do  you  know  who  this  sick 
woman  is? 


196  DANIELA  ACT  i 

PONA.  It  may  be — pst! — it  may  be  they  want  to  put  up 
some  game  on  us. 

TOMASETA.  Put  up  some  game  on  us?  They'd  never  put 
up  a  game  on  such  a  little  place. 

ANTONIA.  No,  for  Daniela's  name  was  mentioned  in  the 
letter. 

ANDREW.  Oh!    Then  that's  a  different  matter. 

TOMASETA.  I  supposed  she  was  dead  and  buried  long  ago. 

PONA.  The  hussey! 

TOMASETA.  That's  what  my  husband  says.  I'd  better  go 
home  to  my  whitewashing. 

ANTONIA.  You  must  have  all  known  her.  I  didn't 
live  in  the  village  in  those  days.  Of  course  she  was  a 
friend  of  yours. 

TOMASETA.  [Coldly]  Hardly  that. 

PONA.  [With  disdain]  We  know  her.  She  was  a  good  deal 
older  than  we  were. 

MONSA.  No,  Pona;  you  were  older. 

TOMASETA.  You  ought  to  know,  Monsa.  You  were  a  good 
deal  older  than  she  was — and  than  the  rest  of  us,  too,  for  that 
matter.  . 

MONSA.  Suit  yourselves;  it  doesn't  bother  me. 

ANTONIA.  Ram6n  says  she  was  twelve  years  old  when  she 
went  away. 

ANDREW.  My  wife  says  twelve  or  thirteen. 

TOMASETA.  She  must  be  thirty-two  by  this  time.  Good- 
bye, girls. 

PONA.  Oh,  more!    More. 

MONSA.  She's  exactly  twenty -eight. 

PONA.  And  I'm  sure  she  looks  it,  after  the  life  she 
has  led. 

ANDREW.  Maybe  it  won't  show,  eh?  In  France,  you  know, 
they  say  the  girls  fix  themselves  up  so  that  they  look  like 
new — yes,  and  a  good  deal  fresher. 


ACT  i  DANIELA  197 

ANTONIA.  Anna,  run  out  and  mind  the  boy.  I  thought  I 
heard  him  cry. 

[ANNA  stops  playing  with  the  doll  and  runs  out. 

TOMASETA.  [To  ANTONIA]  If  she  really  does  come  back, 
don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do  about  it. 

ANTONIA.  That  would  be  for  Ramon  to  say. 

TOMASETA.  She's  his  first  cousin;  they  used  to  play  to- 
gether. 

PONA.  I'd  never  want  to  look  her  in  the  face  again. 

ANTONIA.  Nonsense!     You  don't  think  she'll  ever  come? 

ANDREW.  Perhaps  she's  starving  to  death. 

TOMASETA.  Who'd  want  to  take  her  into  their  house? 

PONA.  Sick,  and  without  a  penny!  There  are  places  for 
such  people  without  eating  an  honest  woman  out  of  house 
and  home. 

ANDREW.  She  might  repay  you  with  a  "God  bless  you" 
at  least. 

ANTONIA.  When  it  comes  to  that,  it  will  be  time  enough  to 
speak  to  Ramon  about  it. 

TOMASETA.  What  do  you  think,  Monsa? 

MONSA.  I?  If  Daniela  should  come  back  and  no  one  else 
would  have  her,  I'd  take  her  in  myself. 

ANDREW.  You?    With  your  work? 

MONSA.  Yes. 

PONA.  I  dare  say  you  would  take  her  in.  But  what 
would  you  give  her  to  eat?  How  would  you  pay  for  the 
medicines? 

MONSA.  I'd  show  you.  Everybody  would  help  me.  The 
mothers  of  the  children  at  the  school  .  .  . 

TOMASETA.  [Hotly]  They'd  help  you,  would  they?  For 
that  woman? 

PONA.  The  men  might.  [Laughing} 

ANTONIA.  Don't  talk  like  that,  Pona. 

ANDREW.  When  you  took  that  woman  into  your  house, 


198  DAN  IE  LA  ACT  i 

I'll  tell  you  what  would    happen — the  mothers  would  take 
their  children  away. 

MONSA.  But  maybe  she's  penitent.     Maybe  she's  dying. 

ANTONIA.  Maybe  she's  reformed. 

[ANDREW  laughs  out  loud. 

TOMASETA.  Penitent?    Now  I  am  going! 

PONA.  If  she  is  penitent,  it's  because  nobody  wants  her 
any  more. 

MONSA.  I  wouldn't  let  her  starve,  just  the  same. 

[They  all  laugh  at  her. 

ANTONIA.  What  are  you  laughing  at? 

MONSA.  No,  I  say  no!  No,  I  wouldn't  give  her  up.  I'd 
sooner  starve  myself,  I'd  sooner  die;  that's  the  way  I  feel. 

TOMASETA.  You  could  tell  she  was  never  married;  she 
talks  like  a  fool. 

PONA.  Or  worse.    Ay,  Senor! 

[ANDREW  laughs. 

MONSA.  I  know  it.  I'm  only  a  poor  woman,  an  unfortu- 
nate. I'm  not  like  the  rest  of  you.  But  I  would  take  her  in 
—I'd  not  give  her  up.  [Sfie  begins  to  cry. 

ANTONIA.  Don't  you  mind  what  they  say,  Monsa. 

MONSA.  No,  I  don't  mind;  but  I  am  so  tired.  I  have  done 
my  best.  I  have  done  the  best  I  could. 

TOMASETA.  She  always  takes  things  like  this. 

ANDREW.  Well,  Antonia  was  teasing,  too. 

PONA.  To  hear  her  you'd  think  we  didn't  have  any  consid- 
eration at  all. 

DON  JOAQUIM  and  M.  ALBERT  enter. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Thanks  be  to  God,  here  we  are  at  last! 

ANTONIA.  The  Doctor! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Good-afternoon,  everybody.  .  .  .  What's 
the  matter  with  Monsa?  What's  the  trouble,  child? 

MONSA.  Nothing,  Doctor. 

DON   JOAQUIM.  Nothing?  [To  the  others]  What  are  you 


ACT  i  DANIEL  A  199 

making  this  woman  cry  for?  Shame,  shame  on  you!  Isn't 
she  worth  all  the  rest  of  you  put  together?  [To  ANDREW. 
who  is  about  to  speak]  Yes,  and  your  prattling  wife,  too,  in 
the  bargain! 

ANDREW.  Better  include  me  in  the  bargain,  Doctor. 
DON  JOAQUIM.  You  idle  fellow!  .  .  .  Come,  come  now, 
what's  the  matter?     What  have  they  been  doing  to  you, 
Monsa? 

MONSA.  Nothing,  Doctor;  nothing.  [Rising]  I  must  be 
going  back  to  school.  There  are  too  many  children  to  be 
left  in  the  care  of  a  child. 

As  she  approaches  the  door,  ANDREW  and  the  others  pro- 
test that  they  did  not  wish  to  hurt  her.     MONSA  shows 
that  she  is  not  offended,  and  passes  out,  drying  her 
eyes.     Meanwhile  the  dialogue  proceeds. 
DON   JOAQUIM.  [To   MONSA]  Adios,  adios!  [Then   to   AN- 
TONIA]  Is  Ram6n  back  yet? 
ANTONIA.  Just  back,  Doctor. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Then  I  would  like  to  see  him  immediately. 
ANTONIA.  [Calling]  Anna!  [To  DON  JOAQUIM]  Have  you 
had  your  lunch?    I  hope  there's  nobody  sick,  Doctor. 

ANNA  enters  from  the  right. 
ANNA.  Mamma! 

ANTONIA.  Run  and  tell  your  father  to  come  straight  here. 
The  Doctor  is  waiting  with  a  strange  gentleman. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  And  tell  him  to  hurry.  I  am  very  busy  this 
afternoon. 

ANTONIA  places  chairs  for  the  gentlemen.    ANDREW 

and  the  others  continue  talking  at  the  rear. 
TOMASETA.  [To  ANDREW]  I'll  do  it,  Andrew.     I'll  do  it. 
[To  DON  JOAQUIM]  Sefior  Doctor! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Thinking  she  is  ill\  Well?     What's  the 
matter?    What  ails  you?    Come,  come!    Let  me  see. 
TOMASETA.  No,  Sefior,  no! 


200  DANIELA  ACT  i 

PONA.  No,  Doctor,  no;  she  isn't  sick.  But  we  all  knew 
Daniela  so  well;  we're  dying  to  hear  sometlu'ng  about  her. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Hm!  I  see.  Well,  I  know  nothing  at  all 
about  her — nothing  whatever.  [They  retire. 

M.  ALBERT.  [To  the  otfiers]  Ah!  So  you  knew  Mademoi- 
selle? [With  a  slightly  French  accent] 

ANDREW.  He's  talking  to  us. 

PONA.  Yes,  sir;   we  knew  her. 

TOMASETA.  Did  you  know  her,  sir? 

M.  ALBERT.  I  did  indeed! 

The  women  go  up  to  him  to  question  him.     RAMON  is 
heard  without,  talking  excitedly. 

PONA.  Here's  Ram6n. 

ANDREW.  Hush!    We  want  to  hear  about  Daniela. 

[He  stops  at  the  entrance  of  RAMON. 
Enter  RAMON. 

RAMON.  God  be  with  you,  Don  Joaqufm. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Ola,  man!  How  are  you?  [Aside  to  AN- 
TONIA]  Send  them  away;  send  them  all  away.  I  want  to 
speak  with  you  alone. 

ANTONIA  dismisses  ANDREW  and  the  women,  closing 
the  door  behind  them. 

RAMON.  Doctor,  I'm  expecting  a  drove  of  sheep  that  I've 
just  bought  in  the  village.  I  wish  you  could  see  the  state 
that  the  pens  are  in.  [Turning  to  the  others,  he  finds  they  have 
gone]  Where  is  everybody? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  If  you  will  let  me  have  your  attention  for 
a  moment,  Ram6n,  I  shall  explain  as  briefly  as  I  can  what  has 
brought  us  this  afternoon.  [To  M.  ALBERT]  That  is  agreeable 
to  you,  is  it  not? 

M.  ALBERT.  Perfectly,  Seftor  Doctor. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Then  I  shall  proceed.  This  gentleman  has 
come  from  Paris  with  a  message  for  you  from  a  cousin, 
from  . 


ACT  i  DANIELA  201 

RAMON.  From  a  cousin?    From — from  Daniela? 

M.  ALBERT.  Precisely.  The  Senor  Doctor  received  a 
letter  some  days  ago  from  a  colleague  in  that  city,  and,  as  I 
believe,  he  has  not  yet  condescended  to  answer  it  ... 

DON  JOAQUIM.  No;  but  that  was  for  a  good  reason.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  question  propounded  by  the  Doctor 
was  not  likely  to  meet  with  a  favorable  answer. 

RAMON.  The  question  propounded  by  the  Doctor?  But  I 
know  nothing  of  any  question. 

ANTONIA.  I  tried  to  tell  you,  Ram6n,  when  you  first  came 
in. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Kindly  allow  me  to  explain.  The  other  day 
I  received  a  letter  from  a  physician  in  Paris,  who  is  a  great 
celebrity,  informing  me  that  your  cousin  had  been  lying  for 
some  time  at  the  point  of  death,  and  that,  as  she  was  not 
improving  in  that  city  as  rapidly  as  could  be  wished,  it  might 
be  that  she  would  make  up  her  mind  to  return  here  to  re- 
establish her  health  in  this  place.  [Addressing  himself  to  M. 
ALBERT]  I  believe  that  is  correct? 

M.  ALBERT.  Quite  correct;  except  that  you  might  add 
that  whenever  Mademoiselle  makes  up  her  mind  to  do  a 
thing,  it  is  her  habit  to  do  it  immediately. 

RAMON.  [To  DON  JOAQUIM]  Well? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I  was  asked  further  in  the  letter  concerning 
the  sanitary  and  climatic  conditions  of  the  place.  I  had  in- 
tended replying  to  the  distinguished  physician  .  .  . 

M.  ALBERT.  Pardon.     But  you  did  not  reply? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  No. 

M.  ALBERT.  Then  it  will  be  quite  useless  to  do  so  now. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I  should  have  to  study  the  conditions  first. 

RAMON.  [To  DON  JOAQUIM]  Why  didn't  you  speak  to  me 
about  this  letter  before?  Then  you  could  have  answered  it  at 
once. 

DON  JOAQUIM,  But,  man,  you  were  away. 


202  DAN  IE  LA  ACT  i 

ANTONIA.  [Speaking  for  DON  JOAQUIM]  He's  going  to  tell 
you  about  it  now. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  It  was  a  matter  requiring  some  investigation 
— in  fact,  most  thorough  research. 

RAMON.  Then  I  will  reply  to  the  gentleman  myself. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  One  moment,  Ram6n.  First  let  me  give 
you  some  notion  of  what  my  answer  is  going  to  be.  I  mean 
to  explain  to  the  physician  that  although  I  do  not  live  in  this 
village,  fortunately  I  am  able  to  assist  him  in  what  he  de- 
sires to  know  because  I  am  accustomed  to  visit  it  profession- 
ally from  the  neighboring  town,  which  is,  of  course,  my  head- 
quarters, a  station  on  the  railway,  having  telegrapliic  com- 
munication, and  so  on,  and  so  on.  [The  others  begin  to  grow 
impatient]  Secondly,  regarding  the  sanitary  conditions  of  the 
place,  considering  them  carefully  from  every  point  of  view, 
I  intend  to  write  that  I  find  them  to  be  excellent,  and  that, 
take  it  all  in  all,  I  think  the  invalid  may  come  whenever  it 
may  best  suit  her  convenience  to  do  so. 

[M.  ALBERT  laughs  at  the  DOCTOR. 

RAMON.  No,  Don  Joaqufm,  permit  me.  Not  at  all. 
Whether  the  village  is  healthy  or  not  does  not  in  the  least 
concern  me.  But  as  to  this  woman's  coming  again  into  my 
house,  I  refuse  absolutely  to  hear  of  it.  [To  M.  ALBERT]  You 
have  my  answer.  It  is  the  end  of  the  matter.  Say  for  me 
to — Daniela — that  she  shall  never  again  set  foot  in  my 
house.  If  she  were  in  the  last  extremity,  I  would  bar  the 
door.  Do  I  make  myself  clear? 

M.  ALBERT.  I  think  I  understand. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [To  RAMON]  But,  it  seems  to  me,  friend, . . . 
[Wishing  to  argue  the  point.  They  pause]  Well,  after  all, 
it's  none  of  my  business.  Family  matters  are  family  matters, 
and  that's  all  there  is  about  it. 

RAMON.  Pardon,  Don  Joaqufm,  but  this  is  not  a  family 
matter.  It  is  a  long  time  since  Daniela  was  one  of  our  family. 


ACTI  DANIELA  203 

[With  grouting  emotion]  Why,  whole  years  passed  when  we 
supposed  that  she  was  dead;  then,  at  the  last,  along  comes 
some  chap  and  tells  us  he  has  seen  her  dancing  somewhere  in 
a  hall,  in  a  cafe",  in  I  don't  know  what  town  in  France  .  .  . 

M.  ALBERT.  In  a  cafe"?  That  must  have  been  a  long  time 
ago.  [Implying  that  she  has  risen  in  the  world] 

RAMON.  Yes,  before  I  met  my  wife.  And  we  have  been 
married  twelve  years. 

M.  ALBERT.  I  can  believe  it.  But  now  she  never  leaves 
Paris,  unless  to  make  some  tour  through  Germany  or  Bel- 
gium .  .  .  [RAMON  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Well,  well!  Can  it  be  possible?  Adios, 
Antonia,  adios! 

ANTONIA.  Adios,  Senor  Doctor. 

M.  ALBERT.  [To  RAMON]  You  see  her  condition  is  quite 
contrary  to  what  you  had  supposed.  [They  prepare  to  go. 

RAMON.  [Muck  offended,  but  restraining  himself]  Then  let 
those  cure  her  who  have  made  her  ill.  We  have  been  happy 
here  without  her;  she  has  been  happy  there  without  us. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [To  M.  ALBERT]  Come,  come!  Let  us  go. 
[Going  straight  to  the  door]  Why  argue  with  such  a  fellow? 

RAMON.  If  any  one  had  said  that  but  you,  Doctor,  I'd  say 
to  him  .  .  . 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Ha? 

RAMON.  That  in  coming  here  he  was  making  extremely 
free  with  other  people's  business. 

ANTONIA.  Ramon! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  How  dare  you?  What  right  have  you  to 
talk  to  me  like  this?  What  do  you  know  of  life?  You  have 
no  more  than  peeped  at  the  world  through  the  eye  of  a  needle, 
you  foolish  fellow!  Let  me  tell  you,  there  are  all  sorts  of 
creatures  in  the  world — creatures  that  swim,  creatures  that 
fly,  creatures  that  walk.  We  call  the  man  a  fool  who  cannot 
tell  the  fowl  from  the  fish  or  the  fish  from  the  birds.  But 


204  DANIELA  ACT  i 

there  are  greater  differences  between  men,  far  greater! 
Oh,  I  could  teach  you  a  few  tilings !  This  fellow  believes  that 
we  are  all  like  sheep  that  flock  together,  one  just  as  the  other, 
living,  feeding,  dying  the  same,  following  the  leader  like 
those  he  buys  and  sells  and  herds  here  upon  the  mountain. 
We  are  all  cast  in  one  mould.  The  only  question  with  him 
is  the  care  and  pasturage  of  sheep.  What's  the  use  of  talking 
to  such  a  fellow?  Bah!  Bring  an  unfortunate  here?  A  use- 
less burden!  He's  wrapped  up  in  his  business.  No  wonder 
that  he  has  prospered  all  these  years.  It's  business,  eh? 
Good  business?  God  bless  such  good  business,  man,  and  by 
heaven,  much  may  it  profit  you!  Good-day,  good-day! 

[M.  ALBERT  laughs  at  RAMON. 

RAMON.  Stay,  Don  Joaqufm!  Stay!  I  don't  want  you 
to  go  away  like  this.  If  I  had  spoken  out — ah!  But  I  hat! 
no  right.  We've  stood  together  through  a  lot  of  trouble, 
Doctor;  but  this  man,  who  does  not  know  me — I  don't 
want  him  to  go  away  and  tliink  I  am  a  boor.  And  since  he 
knows  that  woman,  I  mean  to  tell  liim  now,  before  he  leaves 
the  house,  with  whom  he  has  to  deal. 

ANTONIA.  Be  calm,  Ram6n. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  No,  let  him  speak.     I  prefer  it  so. 

RAMON.  Then  listen.  [He  shrugs  his  shoulders}  This  woman, 
who  has  made  you  believe  that  we  are  all  unnatural  folk, 
who,  alone  in  misery  and  distress,  has  led  you  to  suppose  that 
we  have  abandoned  her  .  .  . 

M.  ALBERT  [Ironically]  But,  sir,  if  she  has  led  me  to  sup- 
pose nothing?  If  we  do  not  in  the  least  concern  ourselves 
about  the  matter? 

RAMON.  It's  an  absolute  lie,  the  whole  story.  We  have 
not  abandoned  her.  As  a  child  she  was  left  without  father  or 
mother  when  she  was  seven  years  old.  Her  mother,  a  good 
woman,  was  unfortunate  in  love,  and  set  her  heart  on  a 
worthless  fellow,  one  of  those  glib,  smooth-tongued  wretches, 


ACT  i  DANIELA  205 

half  French,  half  Spanish,  who  hail  from  nobody  knows  where. 
Well,  one  day  they  were  married.  Years  later,  she  died 
from  a  blow  that  he  gave  her,  and  the  man,  for  he  was  a 
smuggler,  was  found  dead  one  morning  in  a  gully  on  the 
French  border,  hah*  across  the  line  from  Spain,  slain  in  a 
drunken  brawl.  As  for  the  girl,  she  was  brought  home  to 
us  and  she  became  to  me — a  sister.  I  was  just  past  six  and, 
as  I  told  you,  she  became  to  me  a  sister.  [Becoming  more 
excited]  But  she  was  a  very  strange  child,  always  making  a 
great  outcry,  passionate  and  wild,  impetuously  stamping 
and  weeping  about,  so  that  one  day  my  father  went  to  lay 
hands  on  her  to  control  her;  and,  because  I  defended  her 
and  held  him  off,  he  became  angry  with  me,  till,  choking 
with  rage,  he  could  no  longer  bear  to  see  her  in  the  house. 
She,  seeing  how  his  passion  had  possessed  him,  for  she  was 
very  near  thirteen  then  and  seemed  much  older,  one  day, 
when  a  party  of  mountebanks  or  jugglers  were  passing  through 
the  village,  disappeared,  and  when  it  came  to  be  vesper 
time  we  could  not  find  her.  Nowhere  Daniela!  I  ran  through 
the  streets  distracted — everywhere  about.  At  first  I  thought 
I  should  go  mad,  for  I  feared  she  had  fallen  from  some  cliff 
or  that  the  rapid  current  of  the  river  had  carried  her  away. 
I  wanted  to  kill  myself,  believing  that  she  was  dead.  We 
had  lived  so  much  together  I  did  not  really  know  her;  I  was 
too  young  to  understand.  Like  a  fool,  for  days  I  wandered 
through  the  villages  and  towns,  until,  at  last,  one  night  I 
learned  that  she  had  been  seen  crossing  the  frontier  in  a 
tartana  with  those  same  mountebanks,  laughing,  chattering 
there  on  the  seat  beside  them,  carousing  in  their  arms,  and 
shamelessly  making  merry.  And  this,  this  woman — this  is 
she,  that  Daniela  you  know,  for  whom  I  would  have  given 
up  my  life,  and  who  has  never  once  since  so  much  as  troubled 
herself  to  think  of  me,  no,  not  once,  nor  of  her  home.  And 
now  that  she  finds  herself  sick  and  poor,  without  resources, 


206  DANIELA  ACT  i 

cast-off,  rejected,  despised,  she  has  the  shamelessness  to 
propose  to  return  home  again  to  me  and  present  herself  again 
in  my  house.  Ah!  How  does  it  appear  to  you  now,  gentle- 
men? Is  it  another  story?  Let  her  die  and  be  buried  in  the 
deepest  hole  in  the  ground  as  befits  such  a  thing,  rather  than 
that  after  what  has  happened,  she  should  again  enter  my 
house.  [Much  excited]  I  have  my  wife,  I  have  my  children, 
we  are  happy  because  we  believe  in  God  and  have  done 
wrong  to  no  man,  no,  not  in  all  our  lives,  but  good — nothing 
but  good — and  that  you  all  can  bear  witness,  and  Monsa. 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  Ramon,  good,  nothing  but  good.  They 
see  how  it  is. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Holy  Mother!  And  all  this  happened 
fifteen  years  ago! 

ANTONIA.  [To  RAMON]  Say  no  more  about  it. 

M.  ALBERT.  I  still  think  that  we  labor  under  a  misappre- 
hension. From  what  I  hear,  the  gentleman  takes  it  that 
Mademoiselle  is  poor;  that  she  may  become  a  burden  upon 
him;  but  it  is  quite  the  contrary.  Mademoiselle  is  rich  .  .  . 

RAMON.  Rich?    So  much  the  worse!    What  is  that  to  me? 

M.  ALBEKT  [Cynically]  Frankly  I  do  not  understand. 

RAMON.  How  did  she  make  this  fortune? 

M.ALBERT.  As  one  makes  fortunes.    Pst!    As  best  one  can. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [To  M.  ALBERT]  My  dear  sir,  we  really 
must  be  going. 

RAMON.  [To  M.  ALBERT]  You  attempt  to  defend  her? 
Now  that  you  know  the  worst — unless  it  be  the  life  she  has 
led  afterward. 

M.  ALBERT.  But  if  these  things  were  true,  she  surely 
would  have  told  me.  Who  do  you  think  I  am? 

[Turning  on  RAMON. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Wishing  to  lead  him  away]  Senor! 

RAMON.  Yes,  take  him  away,  Don  Joaquim.  Take  him 
away.  Enough! 


ACT  i  DAN  IE  LA  207 

M.  ALBERT.  [To  DON  JOAQUIM]  I  see  now  in  what  light 
they  regard  me.  [Always  cynically] 

DON  JOAQUIM  [To  M.  ALBERT,  going]  And  we  had  as  well 
understand  each  other.  I  receive  a  letter  from  a  physician 
in  Paris.  Very  well !  Then  you  ask  me  to  make  arrangements 
for  an  invalid  who  is  presently  to  arrive,  and  to  accompany 
you  to  this  house.  Very  well!  I  have  done  so,  and  I  have 
fulfilled  my  obligation  in  the  matter. 

M.  ALBERT.  You  have,  and  for  my  part  I  wash  my  hands 
of  it. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  And  you  do  very  well  to  do  so. 

Meanwhile  RAMON  is  speaking  with  ANTONIA,  who  en- 
deavors to  quiet  him. 

M.  ALBERT.  As  a  servant  of  Mademoiselle's  I  undertook 
this  charge  solely  in  order  to  oblige  her.  I  have  concluded 
my  mission,  and  I  am  done. 

RAMON.  We  are  all  done. 

DON  JOAQUIM  [To  M.  ALBERT]  And,  my  dear  sir,  we  have 
also  concluded  our  business.  [M.  ALBERT  bows  to  the  DOCTOR. 

M.  ALBERT.  I  have,  however,  one  piece  of  information 
for  you.  [To  RAMON]  Mademoiselle  will  presently  be  here. 

RAMON.  You  will  advise  her  that  she  cannot  come. 

M.  ALBERT.  I?  When  Mademoiselle  thinks  a  thing  it  is 
as  good  as  done.  By  the  last  advice,  she  had  already  left 
Paris  direct  for  Barcelona.  In  fact,  she  may  be  here  now. 
— Let  them  digest  that  if  they  can.  [.4swfeJ 

RAMON.  Good-afternoon,  Doctor. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Good  afternoon,  Ram6n. 

M.  ALBERT.  [To  RAMON]  Good-afternoon. 

RAMON.  [^4*  they  near  the  back]  God  give  you  better  em- 
ployment, gentlemen. 

M.  ALBERT  [Laughing]  Thanks,  thanks. 

M.  ALBERT  offers  his  hand;  RAMON  makes  a  movement 
to  accept  it,  but  then  draws  back. 


208  DAN  IE  LA  ACT  i 

RAMON.  His  hand!    What  next? 

[Exit,  laughing  nervously. 

M.  ALBERT.  [To  DON  JOAQUIM]  I  suppose  you  have  no 
objection  to  ray  returning  to  the  village  in  your  tartana? 
DON  JOAQUIM.  [Going]  It  will  not  trouble  me. 

[M.  ALBERT  and  DON  JOAQUIM  go  out. 
ANTONIA.  Ay,  Senor! 

[Exit  to  tJie  room  on  tlie  right. 

Enter  MONSA  and  ANNA  by  the  outer  door.  MONSA 
is  leading  ANNA  by  tlie  hand.  Tliey  come  forward 
slowly,  and  are  audible  before  tliey  appear.  MONSA 
is  repeating  some  lines  of  the  Song  of  St.  James  of 
Galicia. 

MONSA.  [Entering]    "It    was    like   a    miracle    sent    from 
heaven." 

ANNA.  Like  a  miracle  sent  from  heaven. 
MONSA.  "One  of  God's  miracles." 

ANNA.  One  of  God's  miracles.     Tell   me  the   rest  of  it, 
some  other  day,  won't  you? 

MONSA.  Listen,  child.     "  They  untied  the  young  man." 
ANNA.  They  untied  tlie  young  man. 
MONSA.  Yes. 

ANNA.  Then  they  tied  him? 

MONSA.  No,  child.    They  untied  him.    And  the  little  girl . . . 
ANNA.  Did  they  untie  her? 
MONSA.  She  was  untied  already. 

ANNA.  I  thought  it  was  the  little  boy  who  was  untied. 
MONSA.  So  it  was.    But  that  was  after,  child. 
ANNA.  After  what? 

MONSA.  After  they  untied  him.   If  you  don't  pay  attention, 
Anna,  I  won't  tell  you  another  word  of  the  story. 
ANNA.  Haven't  I  been  paying  attention,  Monsa? 
MONSA.  Not  a  bit  of  it.    And  you've  fought  all  day  long 
with  Filomena, 


ACT  i  DANIELA  209 

ANNA.  Because  you  asked  her  to  help  you.  I  tell  you  no- 
body is  going  to  fight  on  the  days  you  ask  me  to  help. 

MONSA.  Except  you  and  Filomena. 

ANNA.  Yes;  I  know.     Untied  who,  Monsa? 

MONSA.  Untied  who?  [Catching  herself]  How  can  I  tell, 
Anna?  You  ask  so  many  questions.  You've  got  me  all 
mixed  up  in  the  story. 

ANNA.  [Running  up  to  the  doll,  which  is  lying  in  a  chair] 
Oh,  the  poor  dear!  The  poor  dear!  Look,  Monsa,  look! 
Here,  take  her.  And  here's  the  stuff  for  her  dress. 

MONSA.  Bring  it  to  me,  Anna.  Poor  thing,  she'll  catch 
cold.  [She  takes  the  doll. 

ANNA.  She  will  catch  cold. 

MONSA.  Shall  we  make  her  coat,  Anna? 

ANNA.  Yes!  A  great  big  coat,  because  she's  so  big  herself. 
Here's  the  scissors;  and  let's  make  her  slippers,  too. 

MONSA.  [Busy  cutting]  Of  course!     A  pair  of  slippers. 

ANNA.  And  we'll  get  her  married,  Monsa.  Who  will  we 
have  her  marry,  though?  Dearie  me!  Who  will  we  have  her 
marry? 

MONSA.  That  will  be  for  her  to  say. 

ANNA.  For  her?  Oh,  she  never  says  anything!  She'd 
marry  anybody.  Monsa,  why  won't  you  let  me  take  her 
to  school? 

MONSA.  School  is  no  place  for  dolls. 

ANNA.  I'll  tell  you  who  she'll  marry,  Monsa.  [Clapping 
her  hands]  That  little  kid  of  Andrew's;  that  little  kid  on  the 
hill! 

MONSA.  No! 

ANNA.  What  a  pair  they'd  make!  But  he's  littler  than 
she  is,  Monsa,  not  half  so  big. 

MONSA.  He  won't  be  able  to  hurt  her  then. 

ANNA.  Oh,  he's  lots  too  little  to  buck. — Monsa,  don't  you 
ever  mean  to  get  married? 


210  DANIELA  ACT  i 

MONSA.  Mean  to  get  married?     What  nonsense  you  do 
talk! 

ANNA.  [To  the  doll]  You   do   talk   such  nonsense,   child! 
Monsa  .  .  . 

MONSA.  [Counting  the   stitches]  Wait,   I   have  only   four 
more  stitches. 

ANNA.  [To  the  doll]  Wait,  you  chatterbox!    Monsa! 

MONSA.  What  is  it? 

ANNA.  Haven't  you  ever  been  married,  Monsa? 

MONSA.  Never. 

ANNA.  What?    Never? 

MONSA.  Never. 

ANNA.  Get  married  then.     Get  married,  Monsa.  [MoNSA 
laughs]  Why  haven't  you  ever  been  married,  Monsa? 

MONSA.  I — I —  Anna,  how  can  I  tell? 

VALENTINE  enters  by  the  outer  door  and  goes  upstairs. 
MONSA  begins  to  sew  a  pocket  on  the  dress. 

ANNA.  [Seizing  the  dress]  No,  no!    I  don't  want  a  pocket. 
No! 

MONSA.  Yes,  child,  yes;  she  must  have  a  pocket. 

ANNA.  No.     Because  she's  a  lady,  a  real  lady,  Monsa. 
She  wouldn't  like  it. 

MONSA.  Child,  let  go.  [ANNA  tries  to  take  the  doll. 

ANNA.  It'll  make  her  mad! 

MONSA.  Mercy,  how  you  pull! 

ANNA.  I  don't  want  a  pocket!    I  won't  have  a  pocket. 

[She  takes  the  doll.     VALENTINE  comes  downstairs. 

MONSA.  Valentine,  where  have  you  been?     Your  face  is 
all  flushed. 

VALENTINE.  Eh?    Down  by  the  gate,  Monsa,  making  a 
duro.    I  never  saw  such  a  bright  one  before. 

MONSA.  A  duro?    A  whole  duro? 

VALENTINE.  A  whole  duro.     Uy!    See  it  shine.    A  lady 
gave  it  to  me. 


ACT  i  DANIELA 

MONSA.  [Going  on  with  her  sewing]  Who  gave  it  to  you? 

VALENTINE.  How  do  I  know  who  it  was?  Ramon  told  me 
to  go  down  to  Pujal  and  look  after  the  sheep.  The  first  thing 
I  knew,  two  ladies  got  out  of  a  carriage  .  .  . 

MONSA.  A  carriage?  [Surprised] 

VALENTINE.  Yes,  I  just  told  you — a  carriage.  When  I 
got  there,  there  was  a  carriage  at  the  end  of  the  street  and 
two  ladies  were  just  getting  out  of  it.  And  the  handsomest 
of  them  called  to  me  and  asked  me  where  I  came  from,  and 
when  I  told  her  from  Ramon  Anglada's,  she  began  to  clap 
her  hands  and  laugh — yes,  laugh  and  call  out,  "A  boy  from 
Ramon's!  A  boy  from  Ramon's !"  as  if  she'd  gone  clean  crazy. 

MONSA.  [Startled]  Suppose  it  should  be  Daniela? 

ANNA.  Who's  Daniela? 

[MoNSA  gathers  up  the  dolVs  clothes. 

VALENTINE.  Hm !  Daniela  is  poor,  and  this  lady  gave  me  a 
duro  for  nothing.  Now  I'm  not  going  back  to  Pujal  to  look 
after  the  sheep. 

[Exit  VALENTINE  at  the  rear.    Enter  ANTONIA. 

ANTONIA.  What's  the  matter  with  Valentine? 

MONSA.  Antonia,  two  strange  ladies  have  just  come  to  the 
village. 

ANTONIA.  Two  ladies?    What  do  you  mean? 

MONSA.  If  we  thought  she'd  really  started,  it  might  be, 
Antonia  .  .  . 

ANTONIA.  Santisima!    You  don't  mean  it,  Monsa! 

MONSA.  But  if  she  hasn't  left  Paris  .  .  . 

ANTONIA.  No,  no;  it's  she;  it  is  she,  Monsa.  She's  right 
here.  That  Frenchman  said  so. 

MONSA.  If  it  should  only  be! 

ANTONIA.  If  she  comes  here,  Ram6n  won't  have  her.  God 
help  us! 

MONSA.  If  it  should  only  be!  It  must  be,  it  must  be, 
Antonia!  She  asked  for  Ramon  immediately. 


DANIELA  ACT  i 

ANTONIA.  Monsa! 

ANNA.  [At  the  door]  Mamma!  Mamma!  Two  ladies  arc 
coming  up  the  road. 

MONSA.  I'd  better  go,  Antonia. 

ANTONIA.  No,  don't  leave  me,  Monsa.  [ANNA  starts  to  run 
away]  Anna!  Don't  you  go. 

MONSA.  She  always  loved  me  because  I  was  lonely  like 
herself.  [Meanwhile  ANNA  lias  gone  back  to  the  door. 

ANTONIA.  Anna! 

ANNA.  Here  they  are!  Mamma,  here  they  are!  They're 
coming  in! 

MONSA.  [By  the  door]  It  is  she.  What  a  lady  she  has  grown 
to  be! 

[She  makes  a  movement  to  go,  but  is  detained  by  ANTONIA. 

ANTONIA.  Don't  leave  me,  Monsa.    Ramon  .  .  . 

MONSA.  Shall  I  tell  them  not  to  come  in? 

The  LADIES  are  heard  talking,  without,  Jiowcver,  being 
seen. 

ANTONIA.  For  mercy's  sake,  not  before  me!    Say  nothing. 

MONSA.  I  wouldn't  have  known  her.  How  good  it  is  to 
see  her  back! 

ANTONIA.  Hush!    They're  here. 

ANTONIA  draws  MONSA  to  the  right,  away  from  the  door. 
ANNA  remains  where  she  is,  further  to  the  front. 
Enter  DANIELA  and  JEANNE. 

DANIELA.  No,  I  don't  know.  I  can't  say  for  certain.  .  .  . 
It  looks  just  the  same  as  it  used  to  outside,  except  that 
everything  seems  so  much  smaller.  [Abruptly,  with  pleasure] 
Ah!  Yes!  This  is  the  place.  Yes,  yes!  One  day  I  fell 
down  those  stairs.  I  remember  it  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday. 
Ram6n's  father,  my  uncle,  used  to  thump  down  them  so 
slowly — one  step  at  a  time — pam,  pam,  pam!  It  took 
Ramon  just  four  leaps,  and  then  we  would  be  off  together, 
in  rooms  and  out  again,  all  over  the  house.  Ah!  How  good  it 


ACT  i  DANIELA  213 

feels  to  be  back  again !  But  what  a  dreadful  journey !  [ANNA 
bursts  out  laughing}  Who  is  this  child  laughing?  [She  notices 
the  others  also]  Ah! 

MONSA.  Good — good-afternoon. 

ANTONIA.  Good-afternoon,  lady. 

DANIELA.  Good-afternoon.  Do  you  know  I  wouldn't  let 
anybody  show  me  the  way?  We  left  the  carriage  at  the  head 
of  the  street.  I  said,  see  if  you  can  find  the  house  yourself, 
and  I  did  find  it  myself.  Didn't  I  find  it,  Jeanne? 

JEANNE.  You  did,  Madam. 

DANIELA.  But  I  know  that  it  has  grown  smaller.  Why, 
it  used  to  be  so  big  there  never  was  any  end  to  it!  Where  is 
Ramon? 

ANTONIA.  He's  coming,  lady. 

[She  speaks  with  MONSA,  uneasily. 

DANIELA.  [To  JEANNE]  You  didn't  think  that  it  would 
look  like  this,  did  you?  But  there  is  health  here.  [Looking 
about  and  breathing  deeply]  Health  in  every  breath! 

ANTONIA.  Anna,  run  and  call  your  father. 

[ANNA  stands  as  transfixed,  looking  at  DANIELA. 

DANIELA.  {Raising  her  voice}  Ramon!  Ramon!  [To  AN- 
TONIA and  MONSA]  You  can't  imagine  how  good  it  feels  to 
call  that  name  again. — Ramon! 

MONSA.  We  didn't  know,  SefLora  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  That  I  was  coming?  No,  of  course  not.  [To 
JEANNE]  My  heart  just  leaps  within  me.  Why,  I  can  remem- 
ber a  thousand  things  that  happened  when  I  was  so  liigh! 

ANTONIA.  [To  MONSA]  I'm  going  out.        [Exit  ANTONIA. 

DANIELA.  [To  JEANNE]  I  lived  here  many  years.  [Laugh- 
ing] Who  ever  would  have  thought  it?  I  never  could  have 
died  happy  without  coming  here  again. — Look!  See  her 
standing  there.  [To  ANNA]  Come  here,  child! 

MONSA.  Go  and  speak  to  the  lady. 

[ANNA  goes  up  to  DANIELA. 


214  DANIELA  ACT  i 

DANIELA.  She  is  well  brought  up. 

ANNA.  Yes,  ma'am. 

DANIELA.  What  is  your  name,  little  girl? 

ANNA.  I'm  Anna.  [Evidently  astonished  that  there  is  any 
one  who  does  not  know  her] 

DANIELA.  [Laughing]  Anna!  [To  JEANNE]  She  says  she's 
Anna. 

MONSA.  She's  Ram6n's  daughter. 

DANIELA.  Ah?  Has  he  so  old  a  child?  He  is  married, 
then? 

MONSA.  Yes. 

DANIELA.  And  you — you  are  his  wife? 

MONSA.  Oh,  no!  I'm — don't  you  remember  me?  I'm 
Monsa — at  the  school  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  [Trying  to  recollect]  Monsa,  Monsa — Ah!  I 
have  such  a  memory! 

MONSA.  [Disappointed]  You  don't  remember? 

DANIELA.  No.  As  a  child  were  you  always  very  pert, 
very  precocious? 

MONSA.  No,  I  was  always  very  poor.    But  I  used  to  think 

a  great  deal  of  you,  a  very  great  deal.    You  don't  remember? 

[ANNA  makes  a  sign,  asking  permission  to  show  her  doll. 

DANIELA.  Yes,  of  course.  Bring  it  here.  [Laughing]  If 
it  doesn't  look  just  like  a  person!  Anna,  I  am  going  to  buy 
you  a  fine  doll,  a  very  fine  doll.  [To  JEANNE,  smiling]  She's 
Anna!  [Then  seriously]  But  it  doesn't  seem  that  it  can  be. 
Here  I  am  again  happy,  and  yet  I  can  scarcely  keep  from 
bursting  into  tears.  So  many  years  passed  when  I  never 
once  thought  of  this  place,  and  now  it  seems  to  me  that  if 
I  don't  see  Ram6n  directly  something  will  happen  to  me. 

MONSA.  Sit  down. — Here's  a  chair. 

DANIELA.  Jeanne,  quick,  quick! 

JEANNE  gives  DANIELA  a  bottle  of  salts,  which  she  takes 
from  a  bag  which  she  carries  with  her.     Enter  ANTONIA. 


ACT  i  DANIELA  215 

ANTONIA.  He's  coming,  Monsa;  they've  told  him. 

[She  is  much  agitated. 

MONSA.  Does  he  know  she's  rich? 

ANTONIA.  He'll  send  her  away. 

MONSA.  He  couldn't  do  it! 

[A  voice  at  the  door.    MONSA  pauses. 

ANTONIA.  Here  he  is. 

MONSA.  I'd  better  go. 

DANIELA.  Eh?     Ramon?  [They    nod    their    heads]    Is   it 
Ramon?    Happiness  at  last!    [Breathing  heavily] 
Enter  RAMON. 

RAMON.  Where  is  she?     Where?  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  Ramon!  [Throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
giving  him  a  kiss]  Ramon  of  my  soul!  Ramon! 

RAMON.  [Throwing  her  off]  What  is  this?    God! 

[MoNSA  prevents  DANIELA  from  falling,  supporting  her. 

DANIELA.  Oh! 

MONSA.  [Aside]  The  brute! 

ANTONIA.  Ramon!    What  have  you  done? 

RAMON.  Now  she  remembers  her  home — now,  when 
there's  no  place  for  her  in  it! 

MONSA.  [To  JEANNE]  Help  her — help  her  here.  The 
brute!  Let  her  sit  down. 

[ANTONIA  also  goes  to  help  DANIELA. 

DANIELA.  He  pushed  me  away!  He  threw  me  off!  What 
did  I  ever  do  to  him?  It  cannot  be  Ramon;  no,  for  he  loved 
me,  and  when  they  used  to  vex  me  he  would  defend  me;  yes, 
and  he  would  cry  with  rage  himself!  Jeanne,  why  didn't  I 
stay  in  France  to  die?  You  told  me  not  to  come  here — no  one 
would  want  me  here.  And  they  do  not  want  me!  No,  no! 
[With  desperation]  No,  I'll  not  die  here.  Out,  out!  I  must 
leave  this  house!  Into  the  free,  the  open  air!  .  .  .  [She  drops 
back,  fatting  into  the  chair]  I  cannot ;  I  am  too  weak !  I  cannot. 

MONSA.  [.4sick]  Has  the  man  no  heart? 


216  DANIELA  ACT  i 

ANTONIA.  [To  MONSA]  Speak  to  him,  Monsa. 

MONSA  continues  helping  DANIELA,  without  hearing 
ANTONIA.     ANTONIA  turns  to  RAMON  and  endeavors 
to  dissuade  him  from  sending  DANIELA  away. 
DANIELA.  [To  MONSA]  Are  you  crying,  too?    What  makes 
you  cry? 

MONSA.  They  hurt  you  so. 

DANIELA.  Look  at  me  now;  look  at  me  straight  in  the  eye. 
MONSA.  Poor  Daniela! 

DANIELA.  Now  I  know  you — when  you  cry  I  know  you. 
You  were  always  crying  in  the  old  days  when  you  used  to 
help  me.  Monsa!  Monsa!  [They  embrace,  weeping. 

ANNA.  [Speaking  lowly}  Papa! 
MONSA.  Yes,  yes.    It  is  I!    It  is  I! 
DANIELA.  Monsa!    Monsa! 

ANNA.  Papa!  Don't  let  that  lady  go  away;  she's  going  to 
buy  me  a  new  doll. 

ANTONIA.  [To  RAMON]  You  see  how  weak  she  is;  let  her 
stay  a  little  while. 

[RAMON  is  seated;  his  features  arc  rigid. 
MONSA.  [Going  up  to  RAMON]  Ram6n,  Ram6n!  [He  does 
not  move]  Listen,  Rum  cm! 
ANNA.  [To  ANTONIA]  She's  not  going  away? 
ANTONIA.  [To  RAMON]  For  pity's  sake,  Ram6n,  don't  be- 
have like  tliis.     Say  something  to  comfort  the  poor  woman. 
RAMON.  Abandoned  woman! 

ANTONIA  tries  to  divert  DANIELA  so  tJiat  she  may  not 

hear  the  words  of  RAMON. 
MONSA.  Hush! 

RAMON.  [To  MONSA]  Abandoned — yes!  You'll  never  know 
the  havoc  she  has  wrought  with  me.  No,  nor  will  she  ever 
know! 

DANIELA    leaves    the    chair,    supported    by    JEANNE. 
ANTONIA  endeavors  to  console  tier. 


ACT  i  DAN  IE  LA  217 

MONSA.  But  she's  ill,  she's  faint,  Ramon.  [RAMON  shrugs 
his  shoulders}  Let  her  stay  a  little  while!  Till  tomorrow! 

RAMON.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  asking,  Monsa. 
Better  she  were  dead! 

MONSA.  Have  you  no  feeling,  man? 

RAMON.  How  do  you  know  what  I  feel? 

MONSA.  Think  of  your  cliildren,  the  love  that  you  bear 
them  .  .  . 

RAMON.  My  children?  Ay!  You  don't  know  what  you 
are  saying,  Monsa.  Let  her  go!  Let  her  go! 

As  he  finishes  speaking,  in  a  low  voice,  his  eyes  meet 
those  of  DANIELA,  who  is  approaching  him. 

DANIELA.  Say  nothing  more  to  him,  Monsa.  I  am  going 
away.  [To  RAMON]  But  before  I  go,  I  must  have  one  look 
at  you,  for  it  is  fourteen  years  since  I  have  seen  you.  [He  is 
about  to  speak,  but  she  prevents  him}  Yes — it  was  my  fault,  I 
know  it;  all  the  fault  was  mine.  I  do  not  wish  to  excuse 
myself.  All  those  years  after  I  had  left  you  I  knew  that  I  did 
not  deserve  to  have  you  take  me  back.  And  now  you  need 
not  take  me  back. 

RAMON.  But  woman! 

DANIELA.  Woman?  Yes,  woman, — say  it, — say  the  worst! 
I  do  not  care.  But  do  not  turn  your  eyes  away  to  insult  me. 
Look  at  me;  for  I  like  to  have  you  look  at  me,  for  then  I 
know  it  is  the  old  Ramon!  Yes,  you — you,  the  Ramon 
that  was  a  boy  with  me!  [RAMON  makes  a  gesture  of  dissent 
and  seats  himself,  turning  his  face  away,  scarcely  conscious 
that  he  does  so]  The  old  Ramon  of  former  years  with  whom  I 
used  to  play,  and  who  used  to  run  and  romp  with  me,  and 
tumble  over  and  over  until  we  had  to  stop  for  want  of  breath, 
and  lie  there  exhausted,  laughing,  on  the  ground.  How  I 
used  to  call  you  when  you  came  home  past  the  aloes  from  the 
wood!  Ramon!  Just  like  that — Ramon! 

RAMON  makes  a  gesture  as  if  tfie  old  affection  were  reborn. 


218  DANIEL  A  ACT  i 

MONSA.  [Fearing  that  he  is  about  to  strike  DANIELA]  For 
pity's  sake! 

DANIELA.  And  then,  when  he  came,  that  old  Ramon,  how 
I  always  ran  to  meet  him!  Ram6n,  how  many  violets  I  have 
picked  with  you!  Ramon,  what  cherries  from  the  trees! 
And  then  I  always  made  them  sweeter  by  first  tasting  them 
myself.  And  then — the  partridge  nest!  Rara6n!  The  par- 
tridge nest!  How  the  little  birds  ran  out,  splashing  in  the 
water  down  the  stream,  and  how  we  used  to  skip  after  them, 
poor  little  tilings,  to  catch  them  through  the  tall  marsh  grass! 
And  when  we  caught  them,  Ram6n,  do  you  remember? — 
we  always  let  them  go  again,  to  play  there,  happy,  under- 
neath the  trees.  And  then,  and  then — one  day,  there  came 
a  time  when  I  too  ran  out  and  fled  down  the  stream  as  they. 
And  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  wings — and  I  soared  I  know 
not  where!  And  at  last  I  felt  myself  wounded,  crippled  and 
sore  and  sad,  and  then,  Ram6n,  like  them  I  turned,  and  flew 
back  home  again  to  my  nest,  as  they  would  have  done — 
home  again  to  my  nest — straight,  straight  home! 

RAMON.  Straight  home?  There  came  a  time  when  you 
ceased  to  care  for  your  home,  or  for  my  father,  or  to  re- 
spect yourself.  And  now,  when  misfortune  overtakes  you, 
back  you  come.  Through  all  these  years  you  never  so  much 
as  once  thought  of  tin's  house — no,  not  once!  Don't  look  at 
me  like  that;  that  is  the  way  you  used  to  look  at  me  before 
you  went  away!  [Growing  excited]  Daniela!  Unhappy  woman ! 
Ungrateful,  unkind!  [He  goes  up  to  fier  as  if  to  strike  her. 

DANIELA.  Don't  say  that!  Don't  abuse  me;  no,  Ram6n. 
No,  I  am  going  away,  I  am  going  now.  You  will  never  see 
me  any  more.  Be  happy — happy  as  you  always  were! 

MONSA.  [Going  up  to  her]  Daniela! 

DANIELA.  Jeanne,  take  me  back  to  the  train — to  Paris. 
Take  me  back  to  Paris!  For  Hainun  will  have  it.  He 
turns  me  away;  he  will  have  it  so! 


ACT  i  DANIELA  219 

ANNA  [To  ANTONIA]  And  my  doll? 
MONSA.  Ramon! — He  is  crying! 

RAMON.  [To  MONSA]  Let  her  stay,  but  don't  tell  Antonia 
that  I  told  you  so.  [MONSA  runs  to  tell  DANIELA. 

ANTONIA.  [Going  up  to  RAMON]  She  can  stay? 
RAMON.  [To  ANTONIA]  I  don't  know.     Settle  it  among 
yourselves.     But   at   most   until   tomorrow;     only   till   to- 
morrow. 

DANIELA.  [To  MONSA]  Ay,  Madre  mial    But  I  am  glad 
to  hear  it! — Where  is  Ramon? 
MONSA.  Say  nothing  to  him  now. 

Enter  VALENTINE. 
VALENTINE.  The  sheep  are  here. 

RAMON.  The  sheep?     Good! — Antonia,  where's  the  boy? 
I  haven't  seen  him. 

[He  covers  his  face  with  his  hands,  as  though  dazed. 

ANTONIA.  This  is  the  way  that  a  man  falls  in  love.  [Aside. 

[Exeunt  RAMON  and  ANTONIA  to  the  room  on  the  right. 

DANIELA.  Ah!     I  am  so  happy!    Jeanne,  where  are  the 

trunks?    The  trunks  ought  to  be  here. 

JEANNE  disappears  at  the  back,  returning  a  few  minutes 
later.  TOMASETA,  PONA,  ANDREW  and  other  vil- 
lage people  enter. 

TOMASETA.  Ay!    Is  this  the  lady,  Monsa? 
MONSA.  Yes.    Don't  say  a  word;  she's  rich. 
ANDREW  [To  MONSA]  Hm,  I  thought  so — she  must  be 
very  rich.     There's   a  whole   cart  -  load   of   boxes   at   the 
door. 
PONA.  [To  DANIELA]  God  keep  you,  Seiiora. 

[DANIELA  returns  a  formal  bow. 
TOMASETA.  Good-afternoon. 
DANIELA.  [To  MONSA]  It  seems  I  was  expected. 
MONSA.  A  strange  gentleman  brought  word  that  you  were 
coming.    He  was  here  with  the  Doctor  this  afternoon. 


220  DANIEL  A  ACT  i 

DANIELA.  Gracious!  But  what  has  become  of  him?  I 
have  not  seen  him  anywhere. 

Two  men  enter,  carrying  a  large  trunk.  The  townspeople 
comment  to  one  another  upon  the  luggage  as  it  is  brought 
in,  moving  hither  and  thither  examining  the  boxes 
and  bags,  always  with  the  greatest  curiosity.  MONSA 
endeavors  to  restrain  them. 

PONA.  [To  MONSA]  If  we  can  do  anythingfor  theSefiora  . . . 
MONSA.  No,  nothing. 
M.  ALBERT  enters. 

M.  ALBERT.  Thank  heaven!    I  have  found  her  at  last! 
DANIELA.  [Reproving  him]  So,  you  are  here,  are  you?    Do 
I  send  you  ahead  so  that  you  will  leave  everything  for  me  to 
do?    You  attend  to  nothing.    Why  were  you  not  at  the  station? 
M.  ALBERT.  I  did  not  think  that  you  would  be  on  that 
train. 

TOMASETA.  [To  DANIELA,  who  takes  no  notice  of  her]  If  we 
can  do  anything  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  [To  M.  ALBERT]  You  never  think,  you  never 
act,  you  never  accomplish  anything. 

[More  trunks  are  carried  in. 

M.  ALBERT.  Pardon.    But  I  saw  the  physician  .  .  . 
DANIELA.  What  do  I  care  about  the  physician?    I  am  here 
now.    Dismiss  the  carriage,  go  to  your  lodgings  and  bring  me 
Frou-Frou  immediately;    yes,  bring  me  Frou-Frou.     I  was 
homesick  for  her  the  whole  journey. 

ANDREW.  If  you  should  happen  to  need  a  large  house  .  .  . 
TOMASETA.  Or  one  just  whitewashed  today,  Senora,  till  it 
looks  like  new  ...  < 

DANIELA  draws  out  some  banknotes  which  sJie  hands  to 

M.  ALBERT. 

DANIELA.  Here,  take  these,  and  see  that  everybody  is  paid. 
I  shall  remain  where  I  am  for  the  present  myself.  Later  I 
mean  to  build  a  chalet  near  by;  I  noticed  a  splendid  site  oa 


ACT  i  DANIELA  221 

the  road  from  the  station.  "Villa  Daniela!"  [Addressing  the 
company,  much  pleased]  How  does  that  sound  to  you?  "Villa 
Daniela!"  Tomorrow  I  shall  see  an  architect,  for  we  must 
make  haste.  We  have  no  time  to  lose.  [Everybody  approves 
of  the  plan]  On  the  day  it  is  completed  the  whole  village  shall 
be  there.  Ay,  but  we  shall  have  a  festival!  [She  pauses, 
seeing  RAMON  at  the  door  on  the  left,  to  which  he  has  come 
looking  for  MONSA]  We  shan't  be  enemies?  No,  Ramon? 

[Coaxingly  to  RAMON. 
RAMON.  [Much  moved]  No. 
DANIELA.  But  friends? 
RAMON.  Yes,  friends. 
DANIELA.  Forever.    Friends  forever?    Yes? 

[Still  pleadingly. 
RAMON.  Yes — yes.     Forever. 

Enter  ANTONIA  from  the  room  on  the  rigid.    She  goes 

straight  up  to  RAMON  and  DANIELA. 
RAMON.  This  is  my  wife — Antonia;   the  mother  of  ... 

[He  points  to  ANNA  and  to  the  room  where  the  cradle  is. 
DANIELA.  [To  ANTONIA,  deeply  moved]  We  shall  be  friends, 
I  know. 

ANTONIA.  [Also  much  affected]  I  only  want  to  please  Ram6n. 
MONSA  goes  up  to  DANIELA.     ANTONIA  opens  the  door 
of  tlie  room  at  the  back  and  directs  JEANNE  to  have  the 
trunks  carried  in. 

RAMON.  [To  VALENTINE]  WTiat  was   that  you   told   me 
about  the  sheep?  [Looking  straight  at  DANIELA. 

VALENTINE.  The  sheep  are  here.    Shall  I  send  them  to  the 
pens? 

RAMON.  Yes,  to  the  pens.    Good,  good!    Monsa!    Monsa! 
MONSA.  What  is  it,  Ramon? 

Great  confusion  at  the  back  while  the  boxes  are  being 
carried  into  the  other  room.  Much  curiosity  on  the 
part  of  all. 


222  DANIELA  ACT  i 

RAMON.  [To  MONSA]  God  grant  that  no  harm  may  come 
of  it — of  Daniela's  being  in  the  house,  I  mean. 

DANIELA.  [Taking  leave  of  M.  ALBERT]  Above  everything, 
remember  Frou-Frou,  for  I  must  have  her;  remember,  I  must 
have  her.  [M.  ALBERT  goes  out. 

MONSA.  [Surprised]  Why,  Ram6n! 

RAMON.  You're  a  good  woman,  an  angel,  Monsa!  [En- 
joining silence]  I  loved  Daniela. 

MONSA.  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago. 
RAMON.  I  loved  her!    I  loved  her!    I  tell  you  I  loved  her! 
MONSA.  [Horrified]  Ramon! 

RAMON.  [Rushing  up  to  DANIELA]  Daniela!  What  do  you 
want,  Daniela?  What  is  it  you  desire? 

DANIELA.  [Surrounded  by  the  people]  I  have  come  home  to 
stay.  We  will  sit  together  at  dinner.  [Radiantly  happy] 
It  will  be  a  feast  day  for  us  all! 

MONSA.  [Apart]  But  he  loves  Antonia.  I  know  he  loves 
Antonia! 

As  the  curtain  is  about  to  fall,  a  man  enters  by  the  outer 
door,  carrying  a  trunk  that  stands  as  high  as  his 
shoulder.  Above  the  chatter  of  the  people  rise  the 
excited  tones  of  RAMON  and  the  happy  voice  of 
DANIELA. 

Curtain. 


ACT   II 

The  same.  TJie  cradle  stands  to  the  right  with  the  child  sleeping 
in  it.  It  is  late  afternoon.  ANTONIA  is  seated  beside  the 
cradle,  sewing.  Presently  MONSA  enters  from  the  rear. 
When  DANIELA  is  heard  speaking,  it  is  from  the  porch, 
outside  upon  the  left,  without,  however,  being  seen.  As 
the  curtain  rises  a  number  of  workmen  may  be  heard  at  a 
distance,  busily  cutting  stone.  MONSA  hesitates  a  moment 
after  entering  before  presenting  herself. 

MONSA.  Why  do  you  let  the  baby  sleep  all  day,  Antonia? 
He'll  surely  keep  you  awake  tonight. 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  he  will. 

MONSA.  Of  course  he  will. 

ANTONIA.  Yesterday  Ram6n  told  me  the  same  thing. 

MONSA.  Whenever  a  man  finds  something  interfering  with 
his  sleep,  it  doesn't  take  him  long  to  complain  about  it. 

ANTONIA.  It  isn't  that,  Monsa;  Ram6n  never  complains 
about  anything  any  more. 

MONSA.  Don't  you  believe  it,  Antonia;  it's  because  he's 
so  taken  up  with  the  new  house.  He's  had  to  tend  to  every- 
thing himself;  that's  what  makes  you  think  so.  No  wonder, 
either,  with  Daniela  so  impatient  to  get  into  it! 

ANTONIA.  Humph!    Maybe.    Is  school  over  yet? 

MONSA.  Yes,  for  today.  I  just  finished  taking  the  little 
children  home,  and  now  I'm  done  till  tomorrow.  Where's 
Anna?  I  didn't  see  her  at  all  this  afternoon. 

ANTONIA.  Oh!  She's  busy  with  Daniela  and  Ramon.  I 
told  her  I  wanted  her  to  stay  with  me,  too.  I  never  saw  any- 

223 


224  DANIELA  ACT  H 

thing  like  it,  Monsa — that  woman  runs  away  with  everything 
that  comes  near  her — absolutely  everything. 

MONSA.  The  men  are  working  in  double  shifts.  How  have 
they  ever  been  able  to  get  through  so  much  in  such  a  little 
while?  It's  only  a  month  today. 

The  click  of  the  stone-cutting  becomes  less  frequent  and 
presently  dies  away. 

ANTONIA.  Only  a  month?    They  have  done  a  good  deal. 

MONSA.  Daniela  wants  to  hire  everybody.  By  the  way, 
she  told  me  when  I  came  in  to  tell  you  they  were  at  supper; 
they're  waiting  for  you. 

ANTONIA.  [Significantly]  Yes,  now  we  have  supper  in 
broad  daylight,  and  out  on  the  porch,  because  she  wants  it 
there,  so  as  to  be  able,  she  says,  to  see  the  sun  set!  Every 
meal  is  a  party. 

MONSA.  She's  certainly  a  good  deal  better. 

ANT.ONIA.  I  dare  say  you're  not  so  sorry  for  her  now, 
Monsa. 

MONSA.  I'll  always  be  sorry  for  Daniela,  not  because  she's 
rich,  but  on  account  of  all  the  trouble  that  she's  had  to  go 
through. 

ANTONIA.  And  aren't  you  sorry  for  me,  Monsa? 

[Bursting  into  tears. 

MONSA.  For  you?    Why  should  I  be  sorry  for  you? 

ANTONIA.  Because  I  am  the  unhappiest  woman  in  the 
world,  Monsa!  Because  Ram6n  is  no  longer  the  same  to  me 
— he's  another  man.  That  woman  has  stolen  him  away — 
like  a  thief! 

MONSA.  For  pity's  sake,  Antonia! 

ANTONIA.  No,  I  don't  know  Ram6n  any  more.  He  was 
always  hasty,  he  had  a  temper,  but  he  was  kind  to  me;  but 
now  he  never  even  looks  at  me,  he  never  speaks  to  me,  he 
doesn't  care  for  anything  in  all  this  house — except  that 
woman!  That  woman!  She  is  all  he  thinks  about, 


ACT  II 


DANIELA  225 


MONSA.  Nonsense,  Antonia!  But  it  isn't  so.  He  only 
wants  to  finish  the  house  so  that  she  can  get  away  to 
live  in  it. 

ANTONIA.  You're  trying  to  console  me,  Monsa.  No,  it  is 
so.  You  don't  like  the  way  Ram6n  behaves  any  better  than 
I  do. 

DANIELA.  [Calling  outside]  Antonia!    Come  to  supper! 

MONSA.  There!    She's  calling  you.     Go  along. 

ANTONIA.  Let  her  call.  I  don't  mean  to  go.  I  can't  be 
pleasant  to  that  woman  any  longer. 

MONSA.  That's  not  the  way  to  talk. 

ANTONIA.  I'm  going  to  tell  Ramon  that  he's  got  to  send 
her  away,  or  I'll  take  the  children  and  go  back  to  my  father's. 
I'm  tired  of  pretending  to  be  nice.  To  think  that  we  should 
have  all  this  trouble  because  she's  staying  in  the  house! 

[Crying  bitterly. 

MONSA.  Whatever  else  you  do,  don't  be  foolish  enough  to 
say  anything  to  Ram6n  about  it.  Sleep  on  it  till  tomorrow. 
It  won't  seem  so  serious  then  after  all. 

ANTONIA.  Are  you  trying  to  defend  Ram6n? 

MONSA.  [Offended]  Pshaw!  I'm  only  trying  to  prevent 
you  from  making  yourself  unhappy.  Go  on  out  to  supper. 

ANTONIA.  But  Monsa,  what  have  you  to  say  about  her? 

MONSA.  A  good  deal  that  I  don't  mean  to  tell  you. 
But  remember  this;  she  never  knew  how  to  deceive,  and 
if  she  loved  Ram6n,  poor  thing,  she'd  be  quite  capable 
of  saying  so — before  everybody!  You've  hurt  her  so  many 
times. 

ANTONIA.  Poor  thing,  eh?  Now  I  see!  I  understand. 
Because  she's  rich  .  .  . 

MONSA.  And  I  haven't  anything?  Now  you  hurt  me, 
Antonia.  You  must  be  very  unhappy  to  talk  like  that. 

ANTONIA.  I  am  unhappy,  Monsa!  Very,  very  unhappy! 
So  unhappy  that  I  want  to  die,  to  kill  myself! 


226  DANIELA  ACT  n 

MONSA.  Stop  crying — some  one  is  coming.    The  Doctor! 
ANTONIA    endeavors    to    control    herself.    Enter    DON 
JOAQUIM. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Sympathetically]  What's  the  matter  with 
Antonia? 

ANTONIA.  Good-afternoon,  Doctor. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  When  I  found  that  you  weren't  at  supper 
with  the  others,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  stop  in  and 
say  how  do  you  do  to  you. 

ANTONIA.  Thanks,  Doctor. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  But  what's  the  matter?  What  are  you 
crying  for? 

ANTONIA.  Nothing,  Doctor. 

MONSA.  How  did  you  find  Daniela?  Does  she  seem  better 
today? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  She  seems  much  happier,  and  certainly 
that  is  something.  She  would  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the 
world,  I  think,  if  you  would  all  only  help  a  little. 

MONSA.  You  don't  think  she's  better  then? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Better?  Oh,  dear,  no!  Poor  woman! — far 
from  it.  What  she  needs  is  rest.  We  must  be  careful  to 
keep  her  from  every  sort  of  worry  or  excitement — she  must 
not  be  disturbed  or  crossed  in  anything.  That  is  absolutely 
essential.  Do  you  understand,  Antonia? 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  Doctor. 

MONSA.  But  you  don't  mean  that  she  is  seriously  ill? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I  do.  Very,  very  seriously.  I  may  as  well 
tell  you.  Daniela  can  never  be  cured.  The  day  after  her 
arrival  I  received  a  second  letter  from  Paris,  from  her  physi- 
cian, in  which  he  informed  me  that  her  malady  was  mortal, 
and,  as  I  have  since  discovered  for  myself,  that  she  was  even 
then  in  a  most  critical  condition. 

MONSA.  Maria,  Santisima!  Doctor,  what  is  to  be  done? 
What  is  the  trouble  with  her? 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  227 

DON  JOAQUIM.  What  is  to  be  done?  It's  a  question  of  her 
heart;  I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it.  When  a  person  has 
a  heart  like  hers  .  .  . 

MONSA.  Cure  her,  Doctor,  cure  her! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  My  dear  woman,  you  might  as  well  say  to 
me,  turn  young  again,  Sefior  Doctor,  turn  young! 

ANTONIA.  That  French  doctor  says  this  to  make  himself 
appear  important. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  No,  Antonia.  I  have  studied  her  case  my- 
self, and  I  say  so  too.  But  not  a  word  of  this  to  any  one. 
If  she  should  hear  of  it  ... 

MONSA.  Not  a  word. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Remember!  She  is  not  to  be  excited  or 
disturbed.  I  cannot  impress  that  upon  you  too  strongly. 
Above  all,  Antonia,  I  must  caution  you. 

ANTONIA.  Me?    Why  me  more  than  the  others? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Don't  be  offended;  it  is  the  advice  of  a 
physician. 

ANTONIA.  Very  well. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  he  takes 
leave  of  MONSA]  Ah,  Monsa!  You're  a  lamb  of  God's  flock! 
A  lamb  of  the  true  flock! 

MONSA.  Oh,  Doctor! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  And  you're  one  too,  Antonia,  though  some- 
times you  mayn't  show  it.  But  remember,  I  want  you  to 
be  careful!  Be  very  careful  what  you  do.  [He  turns  to  go. 

ANTONIA.  But,  Doctor — this  that  you've  told  me — have 
you  spoken  to  Ramon  about  it? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I  have,  and  he  asked  me  to  speak  to  you. 

ANTONIA.  He  did?    To  speak  to  me? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  That's  the  reason  that  I  have  talked  so 
plainly.  Now  remember  you  have  promised  to  be  good. 

ANTONIA.  Yes. 

MONSA.  Good-afternoon,  Don  Joaquim. 


228  DANIELA  ACT  n 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Aside,  going]  Adios!  I  have  still  three 
calls  to  make.  [Exit  to  the  rear. 

ANTONIA.  Now,  I  see.    She  isn't  sick  nor  anything  else. 

MONSA.  She  isn't  sick? 

ANTONIA.  Of  course  she  isn't!  Don't  you  see?  Ram6n 
has  been  talking  to  the  Doctor.  They  want  to  have  me  eat  my 
heart  out,  to  die  with  grief. 

MONSA.  But  didn't  you  hear  what  the  French  doctor 
said? 

ANTONIA.  The  French  doctor!  Yes,  Ram6n  wants  me  to 
wait  on  her  and  be  her  maid.  That's  the  reason  that  they 
tell  me  that  she's  sick.  What  right  has  he  to  talk  about  me 
to  the  Doctor,  and  have  him  tell  me  that  I  have  no  heart? 

MONSA.  He  didn't  say  that. 

ANTONIA.  And  that  you're  better  than  I  am?  And  that  I 
must  make  Daniela  happy! 

MONSA.  Listen,  Antonia  .  .  . 

ANTONIA.  And  that  my  husband,  the  wretch,  wants  me 
to  nurse  her  and  take  care  of  her,  and  all  the  time  with  them 
here,  right  before  my  face — the  fools! 

DANIELA  is  heard  laughing  outside.    Presently  another 
laugh,  in  which  DANIELA  and  ANNA  join. 

MONSA.  Hush!    She's  coming. 

ANTONIA.  I  won't  have  her  see  me  crying;  she  shan't  have 
that  satisfaction,  anyhow. 

MONSA.  Not  another  word,  do  you  hear? — for  your  own 
sake  and  for  everybody's! 

ANTONIA.  No,  no,  I'll  be  cheerful  now.  I  can  laugh  just 
as  well  as  she  can.  [She  laughs]  Why  shouldn't  I  laugh? 

MONSA.  Hush!    Of  course!     [ANTONIA  resumes  her  sewing. 

DANIELA  and  ANNA  enter  from  the  rear.    ANNA  is 

carrying  a  large  new  doll.     As  they  enter,  MONSA 

picks  up  a  part  of  the  baby's  dress  and  pretends  to 

busy  herself  with  it. 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  229 

DANIELA.  We  waited  for  you  as  long  as  we  could,  Antonia. 
I  do  believe  now  I  couldn't  hold  another  thing. 
MONSA.  Supper  in  broad  daylight! 
ANNA.  Oh,  mamma,  we  had  such  funny  things  to  eat. 
DANIELA.  Everything  is  new  to  her. 

ANTONIA.  Anna,  come  here  to  me.    Didn't  I  tell  you  that 
I  wanted  you  today?    Why  didn't  you  go  to  school? 
ANNA.  Oh!    I  was  with  father. 
DANIELA.  It  was  all  my  fault. 

ANTONIA.  Your  place  is  here  with  me,  child — do  you  hear? 
Here  with  me  and  the  baby. 

MONSA.  Antonia,  do  be  careful;  you'll  prick  her  with 
your  needle. 

ANNA.  Ah,  do  be  careful,  mamma,  you'll  prick  the  doll! 
DANIELA.  Did  they  tell  you,  Monsa?     I  had   to  send 
Jeanne  away. 

MONSA.  No!  [ANNA  tries  to  take  DANIELA'S  parasol. 

ANNA.  Let  me  have  it!    I'll  run  and  put  it  in  your  room. 

ANTONIA  makes  a  gesture  so  as  to  prevent  her  from  taking 

the  parasol. 
ANTONIA.  Anna! 

As  soon  as  ANNA  hears  her  mother  call  she  runs  off  and 
puts  the  parasol  in  DANIELA'S  room,  returning  im- 
mediately. It  is  evident  that  she  prefers  to  be  with 
DANIELA  rather  than  unth  her  mother.  DANIELA  is 
patently  in  high  spirits. 

DANIELA.  Yes,  I  had  to  send  her  away.  She  was  always 
fretting  and  crying — and  you  know  I  don't  want  to  have 
anybody  crying  about  me.  I  want  to  see  everybody  happy. 
Light,  Monsa,  light!  I  must  have  that  to  be  satisfied. 
There  isn't  anybody  in  the  world  who  can  bear  a  grudge 
against  me — I  never  did  anybody  any  harm.  If  people 
would  only  show  me  a  little  love  and  a  little  kindness,  Monsa 
• — for  I  am  so  hungry  for  love,  and  so  jealous  of  it  when  I  see 


230  DANIELA  ACT  n 

it  anywhere!  [As  she  speaks  to  MONSA  she  directs  her  remarks 
at  ANTONIA]  I  wanted  you  all  to  love  me  here  in  a  different 
way,  not  as  they  did  in  Paris,  but  dear  me,  I  don't  know 
why  it  is,  you  all  seem  to  find  so  many  faults  in  me!  [She 
steps  back  to  look  at  the  boy  in  the  cradle]  Ah!  he's  asleep; 
the  boy's  asleep.  How  beautiful  he  is!  A  second  Ram6n — 
Ramon  all  over  again.  Ah,  Monsa!  Look!  Look!  He's 
asleep,  fast  asleep.  And  there  now,  he's  going  to  turn  over. 
He's  waking  up!  He's  waking  up!  [She  rocks  the  cradle 
gently]  Ah!  Ah!  Ah! 

ANTONIA.  [Running  toward  her]  No,  don't  wake  him  up. 

[MONSA  detains  ANTONIA. 

DANIELA.  Yes,  yes!  [Laughing]  Don't  make  a  sound. 

MONSA.  Let  her  alone,  Antonia. 

ANTONIA.  [To  DANIELA,  controlling  herself]  Let  the  child 
alone,  he  doesn't  know  you.  [DANIELA  leaves  the  cradle. 

DANIELA.  [To  MONSA]  How  I  love  to  run  my  hands  under 
the  quilt!  He  feels  so  nice  and  warm.  Look  at  Antonia! 
[Aside,  under  her  breath]  Look  at  her!  How  I  envy  her;  how 
I  envy  Antonia!  [Then  to  MONSA]  Look  at  her  now.  How 
happy  she  is  with  that  child! 

DANIELA  and  MONSA  stand  for  a  moment  apart,  looking 
at  the  cradle  without  speaking  a  word. 

MONSA.  She's  very,  very  happy — because  it  is  her  child. 

ANTONIA.  [By  the  cradle]  Go  to  sleep,  little  boy,  go  to 
sleep!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Go  to  sleep,  go  to  sleep! — He's 
asleep. 

MONSA.  [Aside  to  DANIELA]  How  good  it  must  be  to  be  a 
mother ! 

DANIELA.  A  mother! — Pshaw!  How  should  I  know?  I 
shall  never  know! 

[With  a  shudder  she  turns  away  from  the  cradle  to  MONSA. 

ANNA  [To  DANIELA,  placing  the  doll  in  her  hands]  Here! 
Take  her!  Put  her  to  sleep! 


ACT  ii  DANIELS  231 

DANTELA.  The  years  nave  tied  by  and  I  feel  that  I 
am  old.  And  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  I  can 
call  mine! 

The  doll  is  about  to  fall  without  DANIELA'S  being  con- 
scious of  it. 

ANNA.  Ay!    But  you'll  kill  her!    The  poor  dear! 

[MoNSA,  also  pensive,  remains  silent. 

MONSA.  [Sighing  deeply,  then  rousing  herself]  Ah!  Daniela, 
how  about  the  chalet?  Don't  you  think  they've  been  working 
fast? 

DANIELA.  Fast?  I  don't  think  so.  It  seems  to  me  they 
don't  do  anything  at  all.  I  wanted — you  know — to  have  it 
ready  for  the  fiesta.  But  ... 

[Her  attention  wanders  back  to  the  cradle. 

MONSA.  They'll  have  to  hurry  to  get  it  ready  for  the 
fiesta. 

DANIELA.  That's  what  makes  me  angry!  It's  first  one 
stone,  then  another,  while  I  have  to  wait — I  who  have  al- 
ways done  everything  myself — at  once — like  that! 

She  accompanies  the  sentence  with  an  emphatic  gesture. 
Meanwhile  ANTONIA  has  resumed  her  sewing. 

MONSA.  But  it's  only  a  month  since  you  came. 

DANIELA.  Only  a  month?  [Brightening  up]  So  it  is!  Tell 
me, Monsa, don't  you  think  I  am  quite  another  person?  [Much 
moved  and  nervous]  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  I  never 
went  away,  and  then  sometimes,  when  I  think  of  those  days, 
all  at  once  a  pain  comes  over  me.  .  .  .  When  I  took  the  train 
to  come  here  I  thought  I  should  go  mad  with  joy,  and  would 
you  believe  it,  in  half  an  hour  I  was  wanting  to  turn  back 
again? 

MONSA.  No? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  I  was. — I  thought  I  ought  to  have  waited 
till  tomorrow  or  the  next  day.  Yes,  I  did !  And  then  I  missed 
Frou-Frou.  Oh,  I  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  losing  Frou- 


232  DANIELA  ACT  « 

Frou!  Poor  thing!  And  then  Richard  and  Huguette  and  the 
others  had  to  console  me.  [Laughing] 

MONSA.  Who  did  you  say  they  were? 

DANIELA.  Of  course  you  don't  know.  [Laughing  because 
MONSA  does  not  understand  her]  Why,  they  were  the  players 
in  my  company — the  people  who  used  to  act  with  me.  I 
told  you  that  they  came  on  the  same  train.  On  their  way 
back  to  Paris  they  promised  to  stop  off  and  see  me,  but, 
Monsa,  they  are  such  flyaways!  You  can't  believe  one 
word  they  say.  They  never  remember  promises  at  all. 
The  poor  dog  wouldn't  have  left  me,  though.  I  thought 
that  if  they  didn't  bring  her  immediately  I  should  die  of 
grief.  [She  laughs  at  herself]  And  now,  just  think  of  it,  I've 
had  a  letter  that  they've-  lost  her,  and  I  have  scarcely 
shed  a  tear. 

MONSA.  Poor  Frou-Frou!       [ANTONIA  laughs  sarcastically. 

DANIELA.  [To  MONSA]  But  don't  think  that  I  am  heart- 
less. [Laughing]  I  did  cry  for  a  minute.  Antonia  doesn't 
seem  to  think  that  I  cried. 

ANTONIA.  I  think  .  .  . 

MONSA.  Of  course  she  thinks  you  cried. 

ANTONIA.  I  think  that  when  you  left  this  house  you  cried 
— for  the  man  you  left  in  it!  [Laughing]  That  time  you  ran 


away 


MONSA.  Why,  Antonia! 

DANIELA.  [After  a  pause]  Yes,  I  did  cry  when  I  left  this 
house.  [Emphatically]  And  I  shall  leave  it  again  before  you 
make  me  cry  again.  Yes,  I  shall  leave  it  immediately!  [AN- 
TONIA laughs]  I  shall  go  away!  [Much  overcome] 

MONSA.  Antonia! 

DANIELA.  I  went  before  because  Ram6n's  father  struck 
me.  [ANTONIA  laughs]  I  know  it — and  because  I  was  half 
mad  in  those  days. 

ANTONIA.  Only  hi  those  days? 


ACT  ii  DANIEL  A  233 

DANIELA.  No,  not  only  in  those  days;  but  I  was  half  mad 
then,  and  I  know  now  that  I  am  not  like  the  rest  of  you. 
No,  for  sometimes  I  change,  and  what  pleases  me  today  I 
hate — I  hate  tomorrow.  But  that  doesn't  give  you  the  right 
to  dislike  me,  Antonia.  You  ought  to  respect  me  and  try 
to  help  me,  because  I  want  to  change. 

ANTONIA.  Want  to? 

MONSA.  [Aside]  Holy  Mother! 

DANIELA.  [With  decision]  No,  not  want  to,  for  I  have 
changed.  I  am  like  the  rest  of  you  now.  I  only  want  to 
live  here  in  peace  and  to  be  happy  with  those  I  love  and  who 
love  me,  and  who  have  learned  to  respect  me.  And  then  I 
want — and  I  mean  to  do  it  too — I  want  to  dress  like  the 
rest  of  you,  and  wear  the  same  clothes  that  you  do,  and  have 
some  work  to  do  myself,  like  you. 

[She  wanders  back  to  the  cradle. 

ANTONIA.  Poor  Frou-Frou! 

DANIELA.  Don't  say  that,  Antonia.  No,  it  isn't  true.  I 
have  a  heart.  Oh,  I  cry  sometimes !  I  cried  a  great  deal  when 
I  was  coming  home — a  very  great  deal.  And  then  what  did 
I  do?  I  began  to  laugh  and  talk  and  forget  myself  when  I 
saw  you,  until  I  was  alone  again;  and  then  I  cried  again. 
Oh,  how  many  times  I've  thought  of  coming  back  and  it 
was  always  so!  And  then  my  courage  failed  me,  and  at  last 
I  passed  years  without  ever  allowing  myself  to  think  of  this 
place  at  all.  [Burying  her  face  in  her  hands]  And  then,  then 
sometimes,  I — I  .  .  . 

MONSA.  [Wishing  to  divert  her]  Yes,  yes,  Daniela,  no  won- 
der. No  wonder.  But  you're  better  now;  you're  much 
better. 

DANIELA.  Yes!  When  no  one  is  unkind  to  me.  Then  I 
became  worse,  very  much  worse.  But  now  I  have  the  medi- 
cines I  brought  with  me  from  Paris,  and  Don  Joaqufm  comes 
every  day  to  see  me,  and  you're  here  with  jne  too,  Monsa, 


234  DANIELA  ACT  11 

So  I  am  better.  [To  ANTONIA]  What  are  you  going  to  do, 
Antonia? 

ANTONIA.  [Takes  a  baby's  dress  from  a  drawer]  Nothing; 
dress  the  boy. 

DANIELA.  What  fun!    Let  me  dress  him,  Antonia. 

ANTONIA.  Ah,  no! 

DANIELA.  I'll  show  you.    You'll  see  if  I  don't  know  how. 

Give  me  the  dress.   Look,  Monsa!   Look!   Isn't  that  the  way? 

[ANTONIA  goes  on  preparing  to  dress  the  child. 

MONSA.  That's  it.  Let  her  do  it,  Antonia. 

DANIELA.  [Seated]  Bring  him  to  me.  Do!  Quick,  Antonia! 
Hurry! 

As  ANTONIA  passes  in  front  of  her  to  reach  the  cradle, 
DANIELA  catches  hold  of  her  skirt. 

ANTONIA.  Let  go!    Woman,  let  go,  I  say. 

DANIELA.  No,  no;  I  want  to  dress  the  boy.  Do  let  me 
have  him,  Antonia,  and  then  I'll  rock  him  to  sleep  in  the 
cradle. 

ANTONIA.  Let  go,  I  tell  you. 

DANIELA.  What  makes  you  talk  to  me  like  that?  Let  go, 
woman,  let  go!  [Laughing]  Then  I'll  take  him  anyhow. 
See  now  what  I  am  going  to  do. 

[Running  up  to  the  cradle. 

ANTONIA.  [Trying  to  push  her  off]  Go  away! 

DANIELA.  I  am  here  first.  [Laughing  softly]  You'll  see  now 
if  he  knows  me. 

ANTONIA.  [Pushing  her  away]  Go  away,  he's  mine!  This 
child  has  a  father  and  mother.  He  doesn't  know  you.  Get 
somebody  else's  to  nurse — your  own,  if  you  have  one! 

DANIELA.  Ah,  how  she  hurts  me! 

[She  lays  her  hand  on  her  heart,  overcome. 

MONSA.  Take  care,  Daniela! 

DANIELA.  Yes,  Monsa,  yes.  She  is  right — it  is  her  childt 
But  she  ought  not  to  have  hurt  me  so, 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  235 

MONSA.  Come  away.  [Diverting  her  attention.  ANNA,  who 
has  gone  out  through  the  door  on  the  right  with  her  doll,  has 
re-entered  a  moment  before] 

ANTONIA.  Here,  you,  Anna.  [ANNA  does  not  hear]  Come 
help  me.  Take  hold  of  the  cradle.  By  the  foot — by  the  foot, 
I  tell  you !  [ANNA  lays  the  doll  across  the  foot  of  the  cradle]  Drag 
it  into  the  other  room.  Quick!  Go  along,  go  along! 

Exeunt  ANTONIA  and  ANNA,  dragging  out  the  cradle 
through  the  door  on  the  right.  When  ANTONIA  dis- 
appears she  is  pushing  the  cradle  from  behind.  Her 
last  words  are  said  behind  the  scene. 

DANIELA.  [To  MONSA]  My  heart  goes  out  with  that  child. 
MONSA.  Poor  Daniela! 

She  passes  her  hand  through  DANIELA'S  hair,  holding 

her  in  half  embrace. 

DANIELA.  She's  very  bitter  against  me. 
MONSA.  No. 

DANIELA.  [Impetuously]  I  am  going  to  ask  her  why  she 
treats  me  so. 

MONSA.  [Detaining  her]  Don't  do  that. 
DANIELA.  It's  because  she  doesn't  want  me  to  touch  her 
child.  [Sadly]  Ay,  how  she  hurts  me,  Monsa!    But  Ram6n 
has  a  great  heart. 

MONSA.  Come,  we've  got  so  many  things  to  talk  about. 
DANIELA.  Have  we,  Monsa?    Monsa,  tell  me!    Why  do 
you  take  such  an  interest  in  me? 

MONSA.  Pshaw!  I've  always  had  it.  That's  the  way  I'm 
made. 

DANIELA.  [After  a  pause]  As  I  am  made — not  like  the  rest! 
But  that  woman  will  kill  me,  Monsa.  She  can't  even  bear 
to  see  me  in  the  house.  What  harm  would  I  do  to  her  boy? 
I  should  like  to  know  that.  Listen,  Monsa.  [Turning  abruptly 
to  her]  Didn't  you  ever  have  a  lover? 
t  A  lover? 


236  DANIEL  A  ACT  n 

DANIELA.  Yes. 

MONSA.  A  lover?    Oh,  yes!    One. 

DANIELA.  One?  I  thought  so.  Tell  me  about  him.  Some 
one  who  promised  he  would  marry  you  and  to  whom  you  gave 
your  love,  and  who  afterward  flew  away — like  the  birds? 

MONSA.  [Laughing  sadly]  Oh,  no,  no!  Nothing  like  that. 
It  was  nothing  like  that. 

DANIELA.  Monsa,  never  believe  in  any  man.  Men  do 
not  love,  you  know — they  do  not  love!  Where  is  he  now? 

MONSA.  In  another  village — far  away. 

DANIELA.  And  how  was  it  that  you  didn't  marry  him? 

MONSA.  He  wanted  me  to  marry  him  and  I  loved  him 
dearly;  but  one  day  I  found  that  he  had  deceived  another 
girl,  and  that  she  had  had  a  child  by  him,  and  then — I 
didn't  want — well,  I  wanted  him  to  marry  her. 

DANIELA.  You  did?    And  you? 

MONSA.  I  was  alone  and  poor,  and  I  remained  alone  and 
poor  as  before.  And  then  I  began  to  teach  the  children,  so 
now  I  pick  up  a  crumb  here  and  there  like  the  birds.  But 
sometimes  it  is  cold  and  I  have  nothing  for  fire;  and  some- 
times I  am  discouraged  and  downhearted,  and  then  the 
children  come  and  they  run  up  to  me  and  kiss  me  and  hug 
me,  and  then,  before  I  know  it,  I  look  up,  and  I  find  that  all 
the  bitterness  is  gone. 

DANIELA.  You  do?  But  what  did  you  say  to  each  other 
when  you  found  it  out? 

MONSA.  Adios,  Manuel.    Adios,  Monsa. — That  was  all. 

DANIELA.  Why  don't  you  marry  some  other  man? 

MONSA.  Oh,  no,  never  another!    I  shall  never  love  again. 

DANIELA.  [Incredulously]  Never  again,  never  again?  [She 
bows  her  head  in  shame;  then,  after  a  moment,  she  throws  her 
arms  around  MONSA'S  neck  and  imprints  a  kiss  on  her  forehead] 
Monsa!  You  are  an  angel!  An  angel,  Monsa!  You  are  just 
my  age,  and  it  seems  to  roe  that  I  have  kissed  a.  child,  But 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  237 

I  am  old  myself.  I  see  now  that  I  have  grown  old.  [A  pause] 
Pst!  [Looking  straight  at  ANTONIA'S  room]  She  has  done  me 
a  great  wrong. 

MONSA.  A  wrong?    I?    Daniela! 

DANIELA.  Antonia  first  and  you  afterward — but  you  more 
than  she,  poor  Monsa!  I  am  going  away. 

MONSA.  Going  away? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  I  am  going  away.  I  ought  never  to  have 
come  back  to  my  home. 

MONSA.  Don't  say  that! 

DANIELA.  Yes,  I  must  go.  To  Paris,  back  to  Paris!  My 
mind  is  made  up. 

MONSA.  What  is  the  matter? 

DANIELA.  I  don't  want  to  be  old,  I  don't  want  to  be  sad; 
I  want  to  put  it  all  behind  me.  I  have  only  made  myself  un- 
happy by  coming  here  again.  Here  I  am  a  hated  tiling,  and 
there  I  was  still  beautiful  and  young! 

MONSA.  But  the  chalet? 

DANIELA.  Don't  remind  me  of  the  chalet!  I  can't  bear 
to  think  of  it — now  that  it's  going  up  so  fast!  The  porch 
is  almost  done. 

RAMON  and  VALENTINE  enter.     The  latter  carries  a 
roll  of  plans  and  a  small  book  under  his  arm. 

RAMON.  They'll  put  the  balustrade  on  the  porch  tomorrow. 

DANIELA.  [Happy  at  once}  The  balustrade?  On  the  porch? 
The  middle  one? 

RAMON.  I  have  a  letter  from  the  mason.  [He  has  the  letter 
in  his  hand]  It  is  ready  now. 

DANIELA.  Are  they  going  to  put  it  up  tomorrow? 

RAMON.  Tomorrow.    [Implying  that  he  means  to  attend  to  it. 

DANIELA.  Then  can  we  use  it  immediately?  [RAMON  as- 
sents] Ram6n,  we'll  go  out  on  it  tomorrow,  and  we'll  invite 
all  those  dreadful  old  people  who  never  give  us  a  minute's 
peace,  to  see  it;  and  we'll  have  them  all  stand  below  in  rows 


238  DANIELA  ACT  n 

and  clap  their  hands,  and  then  we'll  bow  and  smile  and  call 
out:  Thanks,  thanks,  slanderers  and  backbiters!  Thanks, 
thanks,  you  tongues  of  scorpions,  thanks!  [She  laughs] 

RAMON.  [Laughing  also]  Yes;  indeed  we  will!  [To  VALEN- 
TINE] Put  down  the  papers;  that's  all  for  today. 

Making  a  sign  to  VALENTINE,  who  leaves  the  papers  on 
the  table  and  then  goes  out. 

DANIELA.  [Laughing]  Now,  Monsa,  I  am  not  going  away. 

MONSA.  Daniela! 

RAMON.  [Before  the  table]  We've  got  a  good  deal  to  do 
this  afternoon. 

MONSA.  [To  DANIELA]  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
Antonia — and  about  him — soon. 

DANIELA.  What?    Tell  me  now,  tell  me  now. 

RAMON.  Is  that  Monsa  here  yet? 

MONSA.  When  we're  alone.     Good-bye. 

DANIELA.  Yes,  afterward. 

MONSA.  Don't  be  long.  [Exit  MONSA. 

RAMON.  [Busily  engaged  with  the  papers]  Come,  come. 
You've  got  to  have  your  say  about  these  things. 

DANIELA.  Now  I  am  yours.    You're  a  good  boy,  Ram6n. 

RAMON.  Look  at  that  carefully. 

[Showing  her  a  drawing  of  the  facade  of  the  chalet. 

DANIELA.  I  am  looking  at  it. 

RAMON.  Senor  Felip  wants  to  know  whether  you  want  the 
tower  like  this,  or  whether  you'd  rather  have  it  finished.  .  .  . 
Wait!  I  have  it  here.  [Unrolling  another  paper] 

DANIELA.  Higher,  higher!  I  want  it  a  great  deal  higher. 
[Speaking  of  the  first  plan] 

RAMON.  Wait  till  I  show  you.  [He  finishes  unrolling  the 
second  paper]  Here  it  is.  What  do  you  think  of  that? 

DANIELA.  Let  me  see  it  ...  [Measuring  the  drawing]  One 
palm  and  a  half.  Now  let  me  see  the  other.  Hold  the  paper 
open — wider  open.  [DANIELA  gives  RAMON  a  pat  on  the  head. 


ACT  ii  DAN  IE  LA  239 

He  starts  involuntarily,  and  she  bursts  out  laughing;  he  remains 
quite  serious]  Oh,  higher,  higher!  We  must  have  a  higher 
tower.  What  does  Senor  Felip  have  to  say? 

RAMON.  Higher?  Then  it  will  be  almost  as  high  as  the 
church  tower. 

DANIELA.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  my  tower  won't 
be  as  high  as  the  church  tower?  Pshaw!  [Striking  the  paper 
with  her  fist]  Take  it  away!  Tell  them  to  draw  me  another; 
I  want  to  look  down  on  the  church  tower.  I'll  show  you. 
See!  A  white  tower  with  gilded  tiles  like  that,  'way  up  there, 
and  the  church  tower  'way  down  below  here,  all  huddled  up 
and  black,  just  as  if  it  were  the  child  of  my  tower  and  pro- 
tected by  it.  [Laughing]  There!  What  do  you  think  of  that? 

RAMON.  I  don't  know.  People  will  talk.  [Rolling  up  the 
paper]  But  Senor  Felip  will  do  as  you  please,  and  let  them 
talk. 

DANIELA.  What  do  you  mean? 

RAMON.  Let  them  talk.  Everybody  seems  to  think  that 
they  have  a  right  to  mix  themselves  up  in  it. 

DANIELA.  In  what? 

RAMON.  Nothing.     Let's  go  on  to  something  else. 

DANIELA.  No,  I  want  to  know. 

RAMON.  Why,  it's  this  way  then. — The  priest  says  that 
he  doesn't  intend  to  have  the  tower  of  your  house  taller 
than  the  church  tower,  so  that  it  will  be  cast  into  the  shade. 

DANIELA.  He  doesn't  intend  to  have  it?  I'd  like  to  know 
if  he  thinks  that  he  owns  the  air?  Maybe  he's  afraid  that  by 
mounting  up  higher,  I  am  going  to  get  away  from  him. 

RAMON.  I  wouldn't  laugh  about  it;  it's  not  a  laughing 
matter. 

DANIELA.  Oh,  dear! 

RAMON.  I  told  him  that  the  tower,  its  height . . .  but  never 
mind  about  the  tower.  We've  talked  too  much  about  it 
already.  It's  none  of  his  business.  If  he  hadn't  been  who 


240  DANIEL  A  ACT  11 

he  is,  and  I  hadn't  had  to  respect  him,  I'd  have  knocked  him 
down. 

DANIELA.  For  talking  about  me? 

RAMON.  Yes — and  other  things. 

DANIELA.  Maybe  he'd  like  to  see  me  go  away  too?  So 
you  defended  me  to  the  priest?  Eh,  Ramon?  Don't  defend 
me.  Believe  me,  don't  defend  me.  It  isn't  worth  the  trouble. 

RAMON.  Well,  never  mind.  Let's  go  on  to  something  else. 
I  paid  the  bills  today.  Here  they  are.  [Producing  several 
papers,  also  some  money]  This  is  what  is  left  over — a  good 
deal  too.  Take  it. 

DANIELA.  No,  keep  it  yourself;  you'll  need  it  soon. 

RAMON.  No,  no,  take  it. 

DANIELA.  What  did  the  priest  say  to  you  that  makes  you 
not  want  to  take  it? 

RAMON.  [In  a  low  voice]  I  would  have  respected  myself 
more  if  I  had  never  touched  a  penny. 

DANIELA.  [Taking  it  herself]  Poor  Ramon!  You — who 
used  to  think  so  much  of  me! 

RAMON.  Yes,  I  did.  [He  rises]  And  I  still  think  much  of 
you.  [He  moves  off. 

DANIELA.  Still?  What  do  you  mean  by  still?  Senor 
Cousin,  come  here!  Come  right  here!  I  want  you  to  explain 
yourself.  Still?  You  don't  bear  a  grudge  against  me  any 
more? 

RAMON.  I?    A  grudge?    I  am  nobody,  Daniela. 

DANIELA.  [Affectionately}  Imperious  always  since  you  were 
a  boy!  The  bristles  ought  to  be  sticking  out  all  over  you, 
Ram6n;  you  are  just  like  a  hedgehog,  and  have  been  all 
your  life.  Why,  when  I  first  came  home  I  ran  up  to  you  and 
threw  my  arms  about  your  neck,  laughing,  because  I  was  so 
glad  to  be  back  again,  and  you  drooped  your  head  and 
turned  your  face  away  until  I  thought  that  you  were  going 
to  assassinate  me — yes,  with  a  look  from  your  eye!  Just 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  241 

like  that,  now!  Ouf!  What's  the  matter  with  you,  man? 
Are  you  afraid? 

RAMON.  Do  you  dare  to  say  that?  [Aside]  I  am  no  longer 
afraid. 

DANIELA.  We  were  to  be  friends,  Ramon,  friends,  as  we 
always  used  to  be.  [Tenderly] 

RAMON.  Yes. 

DANIELA.  And  we  always  must  be  friends.  Let  us  under- 
stand each  other.  Promise  me,  Ram6n,  that  you'll  never 
abuse  me  again,  as  you  did  that  day? 

RAMON.  [Interrupting  her]  Never!  I  promise.  And  you 
will  promise  me  that  you'll  never  go  away? 

DANIELA.  I  promise;   never!    I'll  never  go  away. 

RAMON.  Thanks,  Daniela,  thanks.  Daniela  . . .  [He  pauses 
a  moment]  Thanks,  thanks. 

DANIELA.  What  is  it?  [RAMON  remains  silent,  not  wishing 
to  speak]  No,  no,  what  is  it? 

RAMON.  Nothing.    Your  word — that's  enough. 

DANIELA.  You  didn't  mean  to  say  that.  No,  no!  Tell  me 
at  once;  what  is  it? 

RAMON.  Well,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that.  But  that  is  all 
that  I  mean  to  say. 

DANIELA.  Why?  Is  it  something  unpleasant?  [RAMON 
shrugs  his  shoulders]  No,  I  want  you  to  tell  me. 

RAMON.  I  can't  tell  you,  Daniela.  When  we  were  young, 
I — I  couldn't  have  told  you,  and  I  can't  tell  you  now.  [She 
draws  back,  serious]  Come!  Let's  go  out.  [He  gathers  up  the 
plans]  We've  finished  our  business. 

DANIELA.  Then  I'll  run  over  and  see  Monsa. 

RAMON.  [Dropping  the  plans]  No,  not  yet,  wait  here — a 
minute  longer.  [Nervously]  I've  still  some  things  left  to  do, 
and,  meanwhile,  we  can  talk. 

DANIELA.  [Very  seriously]  About  what? 

RAMON.  Oh — about  what  you  please.  [He  sits  down]  Don't 


242  DAN  I  EL  A  ACT  11 

go  away.  [Springing  up  violently]  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
away. 

DANIELA.  But  we  were  not  going  to  talk  about  that  any 
more. 

RAMON.  [Violently]  I  don't  want  you  to  go,  I  say.  [Plead- 
ingly] For  if  you  do,  I  know  this  time  you  never  will  come 
back.  [Beside  himself]  You  shall  not  go! 

DANIELA.  [Looking  at  him  for  a  moment]  Ramon!  [He 
strides  in  front  of  her  witJiout  speaking]  I  want  to  ask  you  a 
question.  [She  pauses]  When  I  went  away,  it  cannot  be  that 
you  were  in  love  with  me?  Answer  me,  Ram6n. 

RAMON.  I — I  in  love  with  you?   What  makes  you  say  that? 

DANIELA.  I  don't  know.  It  occurred  to  me.  I'd  be  very 
sorry  to  think  it  had  been  so.  Then  I  should  never  have 
come  back.  [Daylight  is  fading  from  the  sky. 

RAMON.  You'd  be  sorry?    Why? 

DANIELA.  Oh!  For  no  reason.  Let's  talk  of  something 
else. 

RAMON.  For  no  reason?  Humph!  I  thought  so.  You'd 
not  be  sorry,  then. 

DANIELA.  Yes,  Ramon,  I  would  be  sorry.  I  would  be 
very,  very  sorry,  because  if  you  had  loved  me,  it  might  have 
been  that  I  would  have  loved  you,  and  then  we  should  have 
grown  up  together,  and  I  should  never  have  gone  away.  We 
should  have  been  married  then,  Ram6n,  and  Anna  and  this 
boy  would  have  been  our  children — our  children,  Ram6n, 
yours  and  mine!  But  now  they  are  not  mine,  no,  and  they 
do  not  want  to  have  them  love  me.  What  a  pity! 

She  speaks  with  the  deepest  feeling,  but  without  any  out- 
ward manifestation  of  love  for  RAMON. 

RAMON.  What  a  pity!  Yes,  what  a  pity  and  a  shame! 
I  can  no  longer  keep  it  from  you,  Daniela — I  loved  you! 
And  when  I  missed  you  first,  a  great  flame  shot  through  my 
brain,  a  wild  burning  to  find  you  out  wherever  you  might 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  243 

be  the  whole  world  through,  to  kill  you  perhaps,  to  kiss 
you,  to  seize  you,  embrace  you,  to  die  or  to  live  with  you 
— I  don't  know  which,  nor  what,  nor  how!  And  then  I 
left  this  house,  and  like  a  lightning  flash  my  heart  flew  after 
you  along  the  rails  to  France.  But  I  had  no  money.  I 
could  not  follow  you — I  was  too  poor;  and  with  the  little 
that  I  had,  I  set  myself  to  play,  to  get  more  money  for  the 
journey.  And  I  lost.  Then  I  fell,  for  to  play  more  one  night 
I  forced  open  the  drawer  of  my  father's  desk  with  a  knife, 
and  took  what  I  wanted  there;  and  with  the  little  that  I 
took,  I  returned  to  play,  and  again  I  lost.  Then  I  returned 
again  to  the  desk,  each  time  more  disgraced!  At  last,  one 
day,  in  the  gray  of  the  early  morning,  my  father  surprised 
me  as  I  was  forcing  open  the  drawer — for  you,  Daniela,  for 
it  was  for  you;  and  do  you  know  what  he  did?  He  put  the 
key  into  my  hands  and  said  to  me,  smiling  sadly:  "Why  do 
you  take  it  like  that, my  boy?  For, see,  it  is  all  yours!"  And 
then  he  left  me,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  crying.  And  I  flung 
the  key  down  on  the  desk,  and  the  veil  fell  from  my  eyes, 
and  with  all  my  soul  I  cursed  you! 

DANIELA.  Oh!  [She  stands  looking  at  him,  bewildered]  And 
you  never  told  me  this  before? 

RAMON.  I  didn't  know  it.  I  didn't  know  how!  I  didn't 
know  it  myself! 

DANIELA.  [Laughing  sadly]  In  love  with  me  and  silent  so 
many  years?  Who  would  have  thought  it!  And  others  who 
never  really  loved  me,  have  told  me,  oh,  so  quickly!  What, 
Ramon?  Wait  fourteen  years  to  say  it! 

RAMON.  [Offended  because  she  laughs]  Pshaw!  I  was  right 
to  wait.  [She  laughs  again]  I  was  right.  For  you — you 
never  deserved  it. 

[He  goes  straight  to  the  door  at  the  back  to  go  out. 

DANIELA.  [Offended]  I  never  deserved  it?  Will  you  tell 
me  why  not? 


244  DANIELA  ACT  n 

RAMON.  [Bitterly]  Because  you  were  —  what  you  were. 
And  now  when  I  tell  you  my  disgrace,  you  laugh  at  me! 

DANIELA.  I  laugh  at  you?  Ramon!  And  doesn't  it  make 
your  heart  bleed  to  see  how  I  laugh? 

RAMON.  Bleed?  No.  Why  should  it?  Does  your  heart 
bleed?  You  never  bled  for  anything.  [Again  she  laughs 
sadly;  again  RAMON  is  disturbed  by  her  laughing]  I  was  a 
fool  to  pity  you.  Go!  Go  where  you  please,  Daniela!  If 
we  had  been  married,  it  would  have  been  the  same — you 
would  have  left  me  some  day  to  follow  the  glad  life,  and 
laugh  at  me;  and  no  wonder — for  we  are  what  we  are!  No 
wonder  that  you  laugh. 

She  begins  to  tear  up  tlie  plans  of  the  house,  one  by  one, 
very  deliberately. 

DANIELA.  No  wonder  that  I  laugh.  No  wonder!  I  see 
it  all  now.  The  priest  was  right.  I  see  it  all.  We  are  what 
we  are.  No  woman  ought  ever  to  be  what  I  have  been,  but 
after  she  has  been,  all  the  avenues  are  closed;  it  is  impossible 
for  her  to  turn  back — ever,  ever  to  turn  back! 

RAMON.  What  are  you  doing,  Daniela?  Those  are  the  plans. 

DANIELA.  The  priest  was  right.  I  give  everything  to  you, 
Ram6n — the  house,  everything.  Pull  down  what  has  been 
finished  and  let  them  build  the  church  tower  as  high  as  they 
please.  I  wanted  to  raise  myself  into  the  air,  but  it  is  not  to 
be.  I  must  return  again  to  the  ground — to  grovel  again  on  the 
ground! 

RAMON.  Why  do  you  say  that? 

DANIELA.  Because  I  am  alone  in  the  world — alone  and 
without  a  home!  Where  I  come  I  only  bring  disgrace.  I 
despise  myself,  and  I  have  made  you  despise  me. 

[It  grows  darker. 

RAMON.  Daniela,  do  you  think  that  I  despise  you? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  I  think  so,  and  I  always  want  to  think  so 
— you  hate  me,  you  despise  me.  Hate!  Disgust! 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  245 

RAMON.  But  I  don't  despise  you.    I ... 

DANIELA.  You  think  you  pity  me. 

RAMON.  Not  pity.  No,  Daniela,  no;  not  pity.  I  don't 
mean  that.  When  I  speak  with  you  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  [Quickly]  Not  another  word! 

RAMON.  When  I  speak  with  you  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  [Stopping  her  ears]  I  won't  hear  you,  Ram6n. 
No,  no,  I  tell  you  I  won't  hear  you!  No,  no,  Ram6n!  [With 
decision]  Ramon! 

RAMON.  [Also  with  decision]  Very  well.  But  I  won't  let 
you  go  away. 

DANIELA.  Not  another  word,  or  this  minute,  just  as  I  am, 
I  walk  out  of  this  house!  I  see  it  all  now.  In  one  minute  you 
have  made  me  understand  it  all.  I  am  in  the  way,  you  do 
not  believe  in  me.  And  I  who  have  lived  that  life  .  .  .  [He  is 
about  to  protest]  Yes,  for  I  have  lived  it — I  may  be  as  repentant 
as  you  please,  but  I  have  lived  it — I  came  here  to  be  a  good 
woman,  in  so  far  as  I  could,  but  you  will  not  let  me  be  one, 
and  I  cannot  bear  the  disgrace!  I  wanted  to  find  repose,  to 
be  received  like  a  mother,  like  an  elder  sister,  burdened  with 
years  and  kind,  and  to  be  respected  .  .  .  [RAMON  again  en- 
deavors to  speak]  Yes,  to  be  respected  by  you  and  your  wife 
and  by  the  children,  more  than  all;  and  to  cleanse  myself — 
but  it  was  not  to  be!  I  have  not  deserved  it. 

RAMON.  Daniela,  don't  say  that. 

DANIELA.  I  have  not  deserved  it.  For  you  have  hurt  me, 
Ram6n,  more  than  all  the  others — you  have  hurt  me  more 
than  all  the  other  men  I  have  ever  known.  For  I  came  here 
to  seek  oblivion  and  healing,  and  to  rise  and  build  my  tower, 
and  you  have  only  seen  in  me  the  woman  that  I  was,  and  that 
I  do  not  want  to  be. 

RAMON.  The  woman  that  you  were?  No,  no,  Daniela — 
the  reverse.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened — the  reverse,  I 
didn't  mean  to  say  that. 


246  DANIELA  ACT  11 

DANIELA.  I  don't  want  to  be  it! 

RAMON.  Have  I  hurt  you,  Daniela? 

DANIELA.  I  don't  want  to  be  it!    I  don't  mean  to  be  it! 

[She  is  about  to  go. 

RAMON.  [Seizing  her  by  the  arm]  Stay!  Stay  here,  I  tell 
you!  You  promised  not  to  go  away. 

DANIELA.  It  cannot  be,  Ram6n.     It  cannot  be. 

RAMON.  Why  not?     We  will  never  speak  of  this  again. 

DANIELA.  I  know  what  we  are,  Ramon,  better  than  you  do. 

RAMON.  I  know  myself. 

DANIELA.  And  I  too  know  myself — and  you  would  be  lost! 
Poor  Hum  on!  You  would  be  lost! 

RAMON.  [Firmly]  Lost?    Well,  let  me  be!  ... 

DANIELA.  Be  still! 

[.4  light  is  seen  approaching  from  the  room  on  the  right. 

RAMON.  I  would  be  lost! 

DANIELA.  [In  a  whisper\  Look!    Look! 

Enter  ANTONIA  from  the  right,  a  light  in  her  hand. 

ANTONIA.  Ram6n! 

DANIELA.  Antonia! 

ANTONIA.  Daniela,  eh?    If  I  disturb  you  .  .  . 

[She  stops  sliort  with  the  light  in  her  hand. 

DANIELA.  No,  no,  Antonia  .  .  . 

RAMON.  [Striking  the  table]  Set  down  the  light. 

[ANTONIA  sets  the  light  on  the  table. 

ANTONIA.  [To  RAMON]  Have  you  forgotten  the  market  at 
Vallclara  tomorrow? 

RAMON.  No. 

ANTONIA.  If  you're  going  you'd  better  answer  that  letter 
of  your  friend  Guillemas;  he's  expecting  you  .  .  . 

RAMON.  I'm  not  going  to  Vallclara;   I  don't  mean  to  go. 

ANTONIA.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  it,  because  I'm 
thinking  myself  of  going  for  a  few  days  to  my  father's. 
You  haven't  been  doing  anything  all  the  month  .  .  . 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  247 

RAMON.  Ha? 

ANTONIA.  You  know  my  father  hasn't  been  well  for  some 
time  .  .  . 

RAMON.  No.  Go  if  you  like.  Who'll  look  after  the 
boy? 

ANTONIA.  Oh!   I'm  going  to  take  the  children  with  me. 

RAMON.  No,  you're  not.  The  children  will  stay  here  with 
me.  They  fret  you,  Antonia.  You  know  you'd  find  them  a 
trouble  on  the  journey. 

ANTONIA.  A  trouble?"  To  me? — the  children?  You've  no 
right  to  talk  like  that,  Ramon. 

RAMON.  Then  I'll  take  the  right.  The  children  shall  not 
leave  this  house. 

DANIELA.  [Impetuously]  Antonia,  I've  something  to  say 
to  you — to  you  alone. 

ANTONIA.  To  me?  Tell  Ram6n,  woman,  what  you  want 
to  say  to  me. 

RAMON.  No,  Antonia,  there  are  no  secrets  between  us. 
Daniela,  sit  down.  Aren't  you  better  now? 

DANIELA.  Much  better.  {Going  up  to  ANTONIA]  Antonia, 
don't  go  away.  [RAMON  taps  the  table  nervously  with  his  fist. 

ANTONIA.  No!  I  won't  go  away.  What?  Leave  my  chil- 
dren? With  him?  A  mother  never  leaves  her  children,  no! 
But  a  father  .  .  . 

RAMON.  A  father?  What  nonsense!  They  love  me  better 
than  they  do  you. 

DANIELA.  Ramon! 

RAMON.  I'll  not  have  it  said  that  my  children  don't  love  me. 
She  is  wearing  out  my  patience  with  her  sour  face.  It's  a 
perfect  hell  in  the  house  all  day. 

ANTONIA.  I  am  the  mother  of  your  children,  Ramon!  I — 
I — and  no  one  else  is  their  mother! 

[The  last  remark  she  directs  at  DANIELA. 

RAMON.  What  is  the  use  of  saving  that? 


248  DANIELA  ACT  n 

DANIELA.  Antonia!    Antonia!    Listen,  Antonia! 

[ANTONIA  bursts  into  tears,  tearing  nothing. 

RAMON.  [Aside]  But  she  is  right!     They  are  her  clu'ldren. 

DANIELA.  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  am  going  away. 
Listen,  Antonia!  [RAMON  is  about  to  interrupt;  DANIELA 
turns  upon  him]  I  am  going  away,  [To  ANTONIA]  but  before 
I  go  I  want  to  ask  you  not  to  hate  me,  for  you  have  no  right 
to  hate  me. 

ANTONIA.  Pst! 

DANIELA.  No,  for  I  have  been  a  good  woman  here.  I  have 
been  your  friend.  I  have  lived  here  just  as  you  have  done. 
Yes,  better  than  you  have  done,  because  it  has  cost  you 
nothing.  And  now  you  drive  me  out  of  the  house,  and  it 
may  be  that  it  is  just  as  well! 

[She  says  this  with  the  implication  that  she  might  revenge 
herself  upon  ANTONIA. 

RAMON.  She  drives  you  out? 

DANIELA.  Yes. 

RAMON.  She  does?    It  is  not  I,  is  it?    I  do  not  drive  you  out? 

DANIELA.  [To  RAMON]  Yes,  and  you,  too!  You  more  than 
Antonia.  You  drive  me  out. 

[ANTONIA  shrinks  away  from  DANIELA. 

RAMON.  I'll  not  have  it!    I ... 

[He  stops  short,  ANTONIA  coming  up  to  him. 

ANTONIA.  Who,  you?  You'll  not  have  it?  See  if  you  dare 
to  say  it?  No,  you  don't  dare  to  say  it!  But  even  if  you  don't, 
you  don't  deceive  me.  And  she  doesn't  deceive  me  either. 
[Laughing}  For  I  know  her! 

RAMON.  [Enraged]  Stop! 

DANIELA.  Let  her  talk. 

ANTONIA.  You're  the  one  who's  deceived — you!  For  she's 
inflamed  you!  Like  a  boy,  she's  inflamed  you.  Wanton! 

RAMON.  [Furious]  Antonia! 

ANTONIA.  Wanton! 


ACT  II 


DANIELA  249 


DANIELA.  No,  no,  Ramon!    Ramon!    It's  true! 
ANTONIA.  [Laughing]  She  knows  herself.     She's  had  ex- 


perience 


DANIELA.  Experience? — I,  the  woman  of  the  world,  who 
never  once  thought  of  this  place  when  she  was  well  and  all 
the  sky  was  bright! 

ANTONIA.  [Laughing  sarcastically]  No,  no!    Not  once! 

DANIELA.  And  now  that  I  am  sick  and  old,  I  come  back  here 
to  rob  you  of  Ramon?  Eh? 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  because  you're  a  thief! 

RAMON.  Antonia! 

DANIELA.  [Indignantly  to  ANTONIA]  And  don't  you  see 
anything  in  me  that  is  good?  No  honorable  thought,  nothing 
that  pleases  you? 

ANTONIA.  What  should  I  see  in  you  that  pleases  me?  Get 
out  of  my  house! 

DANIELA.  Ah — yes,  yes!  [Resigned] 

RAMON.  [To  ANTONIA,  furious]  You!    You  to  your  room! 

ANTONIA.  [Without  moving]  Get  out  of  my  house! 

RAMON.  In,  into  your  room,  I  tell  you! 

ANTONIA.  Strike  me!    Kill  me!    I  have  borne  too  much. 

RAMON.  [To  DANIELA]  I'll  not  let  you  go.  [To  ANTONIA, 
who  is  about  to  speak}  Another  word,  and  I  will  kill  you. 

[Threatening  tier  with  his  clenched  fist. 

DANIELA.  No!    Ramon! 

ANTONIA.  Don't  you  defend  me!  Don't  you  dare!  Get 
out  of  my  house!  Wanton!  Thief ! 

DANIELA.  I  am  going,  I  am  going  now.  [She  turns  to  the  door. 

RAMON.  [Detaining  tier]  Daniela! 

ANTONIA.  [Laughing]  You're  going  now?  Ha,  ha!  He 
can't  do  without  a  woman,  and  he'll  not  soon  get  such  another! 

DANIELA.  [To  RAMON]  No,  let  me  go,  for  if  I  don't,  I  shall 
revenge  myself  on  her!  Then,  alas!  for  her. 

[Menacing  her  with  her  fist. 


250  DAN  IE  LA  ACT  n 

RAMON.  [To  DANIELA]  No! 

[DANIELA  sinks  back  into  a  chair. 
ANTONIA.  [Furious]  She  threatens  me!    Me! 
DANIELA.  [Rising  and  advancing  upon  ANTONIA]  Yes,  I 
threaten  you — because  I  can  hear  no  more! 

Enter  VALENTINE  from  the  rear. 

VALENTINE.  Here's   some   company   for   Daniela.     Some 
people  who  want  to  see  her. 

RAMON.  [Seeking  to  drive  him  out]  Out  of  the  door!     Get 
out!  [^4  number  of  voices  are  heard  approaching  outside. 

VALENTINE.  [Going]  Here  they  are.     They're  coming  in. 
MAX.  [Without,  almost  voiceless]  Where  is  Daniela? 
HUGUETTE.  [Without]  Daniela!    Daniela! 
DANIELA.  [Composing    Jiersclf]  Oh,    they're    the    players! 
Let  them  come  in,  Valentine!    Valentine!    Let  them  come  in. 
ANTONIA.  [Going  to  her  room]  They   shall   not  take   my 
children  from  me!    I'll  not  let  them  take  them  from  me! 

Exit  ANTONIA  to  the  right.    Exit  VALENTINE.    MAX 

enters. 
MAX.  Ah!    Here's  Daniela! 

Enter  HUGUETTE. 

HUGUETTE.  Here  she  is!    Our  Daniela! 
DANIELA.  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you !     Come  in!     Come  in! 
[Seeing  RICHARD  enter]  And  Richard  too! 

Enter  RICHARD. 

RICHARD.  [Laughing]  Ah!  Your  hand, Mademoiselle!  How 
are  you?  [Great  chatter  and  rejoicing  among  the  players. 

DANIELA.  Splendid,    Richard,    splendid!     Thank   you    so 
much  for  coming. 

HUGUETTE.  But  you  have  turned  brown.   It  is  the  country. 
DANIELA.  [Frantically]  Yes,  I  never  felt  so  well — never  in 
all  my  life. 

Meanwhile  RAMON  is  nervously  gathering  up  the  papers 
on  the  table. 


ACT  ii  DANIEL  A  251 

RAMON.  [Aside]  She  shall  not  go  away.  I'll  see  to  it  that 
she  shall  not.  [Exit  RAMON  by  the  back. 

MAX.  We  have  done  famously  everywhere,  my  dear.  At 
Barcelona,  at  Valencia,  at  Madrid — everywhere  the  same. 
The  applause  was  stupendous!  And  now,  you  see,  we  are 
going  home. 

HUGUETTE.  We  said  to  ourselves,  we  must  stop  off  and 
keep  our  promise  to  Daniela. 

DANIELA.  You  who  all  love  me! 

MAX.  Tell  me,  how  do  you  think  I  am?  In  excellent  voice, 
eh? 

DANIELA.  Oh,  excellent! 

HUGUETTE.  He  sings  like  a  nightingale,  and  he  has  more 
notes,  too,  when  he  sings. 

MAX.  We  took  the  mail  train,  so  we  have  four  hours  to 
wait  for  the  express. 

DANIELA.  You  can't  imagine  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you! 
[She  drops  her  eyes  for  fear  that  they  will  see  that  she  has  been 
crying}  Now  that  everything  is  over  with  me!  That  it  is 
the  end — I  say  the  end!  [Laughing]  Eh?  What  do  you 
think  of  that?  [General  surprise. 

MAX.  Why — what  is  this?     If  it  is  inconvenient  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  No,  not  in  the  least!  No!  Most  opportune, 
most  opportune — if  you  only  knew  it! 

HUGUETTE.  Be  frank  with  us,  Daniela. 

[DANIELA  laughs,  forcing  herself  to  appear  gay. 

RICHARD.  [Rising] .  No,  no,  let  us  go. 

DANIELA.  For  God's  sake,  don't  leave  me  now! 

MAX.  If  you  are  in  trouble  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  I  have  nobody,  nobody  but  you  in  all  the  world; 
you  know  that.  And  you  are  all  my  family. 

[With  great  feeling. 

HUGUETTE.  Do  calm  yourself,  Daniela.  You  don't  know 
how  excited  you  are. 


252  DANIELA  ACT  n 

DANIELA.  You  find  me  in  great  trouble — in  very  great 
trouble — I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you. 

MAX.  [Confidentially]  Are  you  out  of  money? 

HUGUETTE.  [Confidentially]  I  hope  that  you  haven't  fallen 
in  love? 

DANIELA.  Oh,  dear,  no!  I  came  here  to  rest  quietly — to 
be  myself  again,  and  now  I  find — I  find  that  I  have  only 
brought  disgrace  upon  this  house,  because  they  see  in  me— 
well,  what  they  have  never  seen  before. 

HUGUETTE.  The  hypocrites!  And  so  they  want  to  drive 
you  out? 

MAX.  Just  take  my  advice,  Daniela.  Return  to  Paris  and 
live  again.  If  they  had  begun  to  tire  of  you  there,  and  to 
give  you  the  cold  shoulder,  I  should  say,  of  course,  stay  here, 
and  if  you  happen  to  have  money,  seek  out  some  man  who 
hasn't  any,  and  who  doesn't  concern  himself  much  about  his- 
tory, settle  down,  and  get  married. 

DANIELA.  [Weeping]  But  it  isn't  that  way! 

HUGUETTE.  [Interrupting]  Ah,  no,  Max!  [To  DANIELA] 
If  you  get  married,  marry  for  love,  for  without  love  there  is 
no  happiness.  [Retrospectively]  I've  always  found  it  so  my- 
self. 

RICHARD.  Invariably,  as  you  might  say. 

HUGUETTE.  But  a  country  fellow!  Oh,  my  dear!  I 
wouldn't  think  of  it!  For  what  is  yours  then  will  be  his,  as 
it  lias  been  with  all  the  others.  Some  day  you'll  be  wanting 
to  travel  to  Italy  or  some  other  place,  like  little  Fanny  Mairi 
who  married  the  Marquis  of  Rigolat.  Poor  fellow!  He  was 
so  poor  that  he  hadn't  a  sou  to  his  name.  And  then  what  do 
you  think  he  told  her?  That  he  intended  to  travel  no  further 
than  up  the  fifth  flight  where  they  lived!  And  what  help 
was  there  then  for  poor  Fanny  Mairi?  Next  year  she  ran  off 
with  somebody  else. 

DANIELA.  You  don't  understand  me, 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  253 

MAX.  Richard,  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  in  Daniela's 
place? 

RICHARD.  Before  everything  else,  Mademoiselle,  I  should 
do  whatever  came  into  my  head.  For  you  are  sovereign, 
supreme!  [To  DANIELA]  What  is  the  question?  Look!  Throw 
a  louis  into  the  air.  As  it  falls,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  how  it 
is  coming  down.  Is  it  to  be  heads  or  is  it  to  be  tails?  But 
it  is  no  matter — it  is  all  the  same.  Chance  ordains,  my  dear, 
that  some  of  us  shall  live  this  life  wearing  the  veil,  our  eyes 
raised  up  in  prayer  to  heaven;  and  some  of  us  shall  live  it 
on  the  stage,  our  toes  raised  up,  without  the  veil,  toward  the 
ceiling. 

DANIELA.  I  am  not  that  way,  Richard.    I  reflect. 

RICHARD.  Yes,  the  moment  the  louis  is  in  the  air! 

[RAMON  appears  at  the  door,  watching  DANIELA. 

DANIELA.  [After  seeing  RAMON]  No!  It  is  not  that  way. 
I  have  decided.  I  am  going  back  to  Paris. 

RICHARD.  Ah,  heads,  heads!    The  coin  is  on  the  floor. 

[They  all  laugh  except  DANIELA. 

HUGUETTE.  Good!    Back  to  Paris! 

MAX.  And  I  will  find  you  a  manager. 

DANIELA.  Oh,  I  have  always  had  more  managers  than  I 
knew  what  to  do  with!  When  they  hear  that  I  am  in  town, 
you  will  see  them  come. 

She  takes  her  position  on  the  right,  tapping  the  floor 
proudly  with  her  foot,  because  she  sees  RAMON  outside. 

RICHARD.  The  war-horse  hears  the  trumpet!  See  how  she 
spurns  the  ground  at  the  scent  of  battle  in  the  air!  Brava! 
Brava!  [All  talk  to  her  at  the  same  time}  But  let  me  tell  you 
something. — Eh,  shall  I  tell  her?  [Turning  to  the  others.  All 
say  "yes."  DANIELA  laughs  wearily]  You  are  going  away, 
my  dear — because  you  are  afraid  of  falling  in  love! 

[DANIELA  makes  a  sign  to  him  to  be  silent. 

HUGUETTE.  [Laughing  loudly]  "What !    Daniela  in  love? 


254  DANIELA  ACT  11 

MAX.  [To  DANIELA]  You  in  love?    Oh,  oh! 
DANIELA.  It  isn't  true!  [They  make  a  great  noise]  Do  be 
quiet.     Hush! 

As  she  says  this,  RAMON  decides  to  enter  with  VALEN- 
TINE.    The  players  continue  to  laugh  hilariously. 
RAMON.  [To  VALENTINE]  You  must  be  tired.     Go  to  bed; 
I'll  lock  up. 
VALENTINE.  Good.     Good-night. 

VALENTINE  goes  upstairs.  RAMON,  after  closing  the 
door  of  ANTONIA'S  room,  takes  his  place  by  the  table, 
while  DANIELA  leads  the  otfters  a  little  way  off,  en- 
deavoring to  make  them  speak  lower.  They  follow, 
laughing  among  themselves,  quite  unconscious  of 
RAMON'S  presence.  DANIELA  continues  to  watch 
RAMON. 

MAX.  But  what  do  you  mean,  Richard?    Explain  yourself, 
my  boy. 
RICHARD.  Oh,  I  am  an  old  fox,  I  am! 

[RAMON  seats  himself  at  the  table. 
HUGUETTE.  [To  DANIELA]  Tell  me  about  it. 
DANIELA.  But  it  isn't  true!     To  prove  it,  listen  to  me. 
[Leading  MAX  to  one  side]  I  am  going  straight  back  with  you 
to  Paris  now.     Tonight!  [General  satisfaction] 
MAX.  Tonight?  [She  assents] 

HUGUETTE.  There  is  decision  for  you.    As  you  are? 
DANIELA.  Say  nothing. — How  did  you  come? 

RAMON  throws  himself  into  a  chair,  absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  not  hearing  what  they  say.  RICHARD, 
smiling,  separates  himself  from  tlw  others  and  ap- 
proaches RAMON. 

MAX.  In  a  carriage  from  the  station. 
DANIELA.  Is  it  waiting  outside? 

RAMON  springs  up  violently  and  then  sits  down  again, 
oblivious  of  the  others. 


ACT  ii  DAN  IE  LA  255 

MAX.  At  the  door.    The  express  leaves  at  midnight. 

[DANIELA  continues  to  talk  with  MAX. 
HUGUETTE.  [To  RICHARD]  I'd  like  to  see  the  lover. 
RICHARD.  Would  you  like  to  see  him?    Look  over  there. 
HUGUETTE.  [Laughing]  A  country  fellow?    Oh! 
DANIELA.  [To  MAX]  When  you  are  ready,  I  will  go  with 
you  to  the  station. 

MAX.  Good !    We  are  ready  now. 

RICHARD  draws  nearer  to  HUGUETTE.     They  stand  be- 
hind RAMON. 

RICHARD.  [  To  HUGUETTE]  Leave  him  to  me.  I'll  show  you. 
[Raising  his  voice  so  that  RAMON  may  hear,  but  speaking  as  if 
he  were  carrying  on  a  conversation  with  HUGUETTE]  Daniela 
is  very  wise  to  go  back  with  us  to  Paris. 

RAMON  strikes  the  table  a  blow  and  turns  sharply  upon 

them. 
RAMON.  What?    That's  a  lie! 

[Astonishment  on  the  part  of  every  one. 
RICHARD.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  mean  to  disturb  you. 
DANIELA.  What's  the  matter? 

RAMON.  Nothing.  I  thought  I  heard  him — nothing — 
these  papers  .  .  .  I've  got  some  things  to  do — about  the 
building.  We  have  to  see  how  we  stand,  you  and  I. 

DANIELA.  [Coldly]  There  is  no  hurry.      The  papers  can 
wait.    I  have  my  friends  with  me. 
RAMON.  Very  well,  then.    We'll  wait. 
DANIELA.  Yes,  they  are  going   now.  [To  the  players]  I'll 
see  you  to  the  carriage.     When  I  come  back,  I  shall  have 
time  for  you.  [To  RAMON] 

RAMON.  No,  for  I  am  going  too.  And  since  the  night  is 
dark,  maybe  you'll  have  need  of  this. 

He  takes  a  revolver  from  the  drawer  and  places  it  upon 

the  table. 
HUGUETTE.  Ay!    A  revo'ver!  [Frightened] 


256  DAN  IE  LA  ACT  11 

DANIELA.  No,  no,  put  up  the  revolver  and  wait  here. 
[Very  significantly]  I  am  not  afraid. 

RAMON.  I'll  not  wait  here.  There!  It's  in  the  drawer. 
[Returning  the  pistol  to  tJie  drawer]  I  have  strength  enough 
hi  my  arms.  [Laughing  fiercely]  In  my  arms  that  have 
tossed  you  in  the  air  so  many  times,  like  a  bird,  before  you 
knew  how  to  fly!  [To  HUGUETTE]  And  you,  lady,  do  not  be 
afraid;  I  shall  not  harm  you  nor  these  gentlemen. 

[DANIELA  sinks  into  a  cJiair. 

MAX.  Harm  us?  Of  course  not!  [Laughing  and  feigning 
the  bravo]  We  are  two  to  one. 

HUGUETTE.  [Laughing]  Look  at  Max!    Max  is  brave. 

RAMON.  Brave?  You?  Why,  you  are  pale  with  the  light 
of  the  stage.  But  here  the  winds  sweep  down  on  us  from  the 
mountains;  no  fox  nor  wolf  can  make  us  turn  pale.  You 
slay  and  are  slain  to  cause  a  smile — the  roar  of  a  cannon  is  the 
pop  of  a  gun.  The  curtain  falls,  the  dead  rise  up,  throw  off 
their  shrouds,  and  live  again. 

RICHARD.  Capital!    I  like  this  fellow. 

HUGUETTE.  [Forcing  a  laugh]  He  frightens  me.  [Aloud] 
Come!  let  us  go. 

RAMON.  Yes,  as  soon  as  you  like.  [Talcing  down  a  lantern 
— without  lighting  it,  however]  I'll  give  you  a  light.  And  you, 
Daniela,  don't  leave  the  room.  [She  rises]  The  night  is  cold. 
[With  great  violence]  The  night  is  cold,  I  tell  you. 

[DANIELA  tries  to  speak,  but  RICHARD  prevents  her. 

RICHARD.  Must  we  wait  at  the  station?  We  shall  be  bored 
to  death. 

DANIELA.  No,  no,  for  I  am  going  too.  This  lias  lasted  too 
long. 

RAMON.  What  has  lasted  too  long? 

DANIELA.  Everything— everything  between  us  has  lasted 
too  long.  I  am  going  to  leave  this  house. 

[HUGUETTE  turns  to  go.   RICHARD  detains  her. 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  257 

RICHARD.  We  have  plenty  of  time. 

RAMON.  Now,  gentlemen,  you  see  what  this  woman  is. 
Before  God,  she  has  had  the  grace  not  to  attempt  to  feign 
before  you.  [To  DANIELA]  But  you  shan't  go  away  this  time! 
By  heaven,  you  shall  not  go  this  tune! 

DANIELA.  Ramon,  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  go. 

RAMON.  That  is  a  lie!  You  shall  not  go  because  you  have 
deceived  me,  because  you  told  me  that  you  had  changed  your 
life,  but  now,  at  the  sight  of  these,  you  become  what  you  were 
again. 

DANIELA.  No,  Ram6n. 

RAMON.  Yes,  at  the  sight  of  these.  Confess.  For  you  have 
lived  in  the  world,  and  now  the  world  passes  before  you  and 
calls  you  again.  Confess  it!  Confess  it!  And  I'll  let  you  go 
— yes,  and  by  the  Lord,  I'll  see  that  you  go  quickly! 

[DANIELA  looks  toward  the  door  of  ANTONTA'S  room. 

DANIELA.  Yes,  I  confess  it.  I  am  what  I  am,  and  I  mean 
to  remain  so!  I  want  to  live,  to  enjoy  myself,  to  die  among 
my  people!  Among  you,  my  friends!  Take  me  away!  Take 
me  away  in  your  arms. 

[Embracing  MAX  and  HUGUETTE. 

MAX.  Come  on. 

RICHARD.  [Enjoying  himself]  Wait — the  curtain! 

RAMON.  Now  I  see!  Now  I  know  you!  That  is  the  smile 
you  wore  when  you  went  away  the  other  tune.  And  I — I 
believed  that  you  . . .  [Laughing  hysterically] 

DANIELA.  That  I  was  a  viper?  A  viper  more  infamous — 
than  I  am? 

RAMON.  No,  Daniela,  for  you  are  another  person;  since 
you  have  been  here,  you  have  been  another  person. 

DANIELA.  [Indignantly]  Another  person!  Reformed?  By 
you?  [To  the  others]  And  do  you  know  how  he  meant  to 
reform,  to  regenerate  me?  By  making  me  his  mistress — 
here,  in  the  face  of  his  wife!  Reformed!  Reformed! 


258  DANIELA  ACT  n 

s 

RAMON.  No,  no! 

He  keeps  repeating  the  words  while  DANIELA  is  speaking. 

The  others  laugh,  discreetly. 

DANIELA.  Yes!    Reformed!    That  is  the  way  he  would 
have  reformed,  have  regenerated  me! 
RICHARD.  Is  this  mountain  honor? 

{With  pretended  indignation. 

RAMON.  How  can  you  know  what  is  passing  in  my  soul? 
HUGUETTE.  [To  MAX,  laughing]  Oh,  the  scandals  of  Paris! 
RAMON.  You  have  no  hearts.    You  cannot  feel.    You  can- 
not sympathize  with  my  disgrace! 

[DANIELA  sinks  into  a  chair. 

RICHARD.  [With  mock  concern]  What  will  the  priest  say  to 
this? 

RAMON.  I  don't  care  what  the  priest  says.     A  curse  has 
fallen  on  me — a  curse  that  this  woman  has  brought! 

RICHARD.  [Laying  his  hand  on  RAMON'S  shoulder]  Calm 
yourself,  calm  yourself! 

HUGUETTE.  This  is  the  love  of  a  tiger,  Daniela. 
RAMON.  [To  RICHARD]  You  don't  know  how  long  I  have 
waited  for  her! 

RICHARD.  I  don't  wonder  you  complain. 
RAMON.  For  fifteen  years  I  have  lived  only  for  this  woman. 
She  has  been  sacred  to  me! 

RICHARD.  Sacred!    That  interests  me. 

MAX  follows  RAMON  at  a  distance,  containing  himself, 

but  smiling  at  the  doleful  appearance  of  RICHARD. 
RAMON.  I  respected  her  like  a  saint  from  heaven!    I  wor- 
shipped, I  adored  her,  and  to  see  her  happy  I  would  have 
given  up  my  life,  the  blood  of  my  veins,  my  very  soul  itself! 
DANIELA   has  risen  and  stands  with  her  arm  about 
HUGUETTE,  who  can  scarcely  keep  from  laughing  at 
RICHARD,  who  pretends  to  weep  sympathetically.  MAX 
is  unable  to  restrain  his  laughter. 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  259 

MAX.  [Aside]  Oh,  oh,  this  mountain  honor! 
RICHARD.  [To  RAMON]  It's  a  shame! 

RAMON.  And  now  you  see,  she  has  no  heart!  For,  gentle- 
men, this  woman  has  no  heart.  [He  weeps  wiih  rage]  And  if  I 
let  her  go,  my  life  will  surge  out  after  her,  because  I  will 
kill  myself.  I  will  die  with  despair,  for  I  am  dying  with  grief 
and  despair. 

RICHARD  begins  to  weep,  and  the  other  players  break  out 
laughing.  DANIELA,  much  affected,  remains  in  the  back- 
ground because  of  the  situation  of  RAMON,  who  falls  back 
also,  without  comprehending  the  reason  for  the  laughter. 
MAX.  There  could  be  nothing  finer  than  this. 
HUGUETTE.  It  is  exquisite. 

RICHARD.  [Wiping  his  eyes]  It  will  break  my  heart. — 
Bravo!  Bravo! 

DANIELA.  [Rising  and  coming  forward  indignantly]  What 
do  you  mean?  Are  you  laughing  at  him?  What  right  have 
you  to  laugh  at  this  man?  [RAMON  stands  as  one  dazed. 
RICHARD  begins  to  weep  again.  The  others  laugh]  Don't  you 
see  that  all  that  he  says  is  true?  Fools! 
RICHARD.  [To  DANIELA]  Brava!  Brava! 

[Clapping  his  hands. 

DANIELA.  Don't  you  see  that  it  is  torn  from  the  very  bottom 
of  his  soul? 

RAMON.  For  you!  It  is  for  you.  [Beside  himself]  Take 
care!  I  can  bear  no  more. 

[Like  a  beast  he  makes  a  leap  toward  them. 
DANIELA.  [Interposing]  Fools!    Fools!  [They  go  on  laugh- 
ing} Don't  laugh  any  more! 

RAMON.  [About  to  throw  himself  upon  them]  I  must  kill 
some  one!    I  want  blood! 
HUGUETTE.  Ah! 

With  a  cry,  she  takes  refuge  behind  MAX.     DANIELA 
endeavors  to  restrain  RAMON. 


260  DANIELA  ACT  n 

DANIELA.  Km  mm,  Ram6n! 

RAMON.  Blood !    Blood !    [He  opens  the  drawer  for  tfie  re- 
volver] 
DANIELA.  No,  no! 

RAMON  thrusts  the  revolver  back  into  the  drawer.  The 
others  approach  the  door  slowly,  still  laughing,  but 
now  from  fear. 

RICHARD.  Curtain!    Curtain! 
DANIELA.  Get  out  of  the  house! 
RAMON.  Oh,  what  disgrace! 
MAX.  [Still  laughing]  But  Daniela  .  .  . 
DANIELA.  Fools!    Get  out! 

HUGUETTE.  [To  DANIELA,  laughing]  But  I  didn't  laugh! 
RAMON.  I  can  bear  no  more. 

Burying  his  face  between  his  arms  on  the  table;  then  lie 

jumps  up  again,  wildly. 

DANIELA.  [To  HUGUETTE]  You  go,  too.    You  are  no  better 
than  the  rest!  [They  are  already  at  tlie  door. 

HUGUETTE.  [Brazenly]  Nor  than  you. 
DANIELA.  Go!   Go! 
RICHARD.  [Going  out  last]  We  are  all  the  same. 

[He  bows  ceremoniously. 
MAX.  [Already  outside]  We  beg  your  pardon. 

[With  a  great  laugh. 
DANIELA.  Away! 

HUGUETTE.  [Without,  while  DANIELA  closes  the  door]  Re- 
member us  when  he  fires  the  shot! 

[They  are  heard  laughing  as  they  disappear. 
DANIELA.  [Turning  to  RAMON]  There!    I  stay! 
RAMON.  Thanks,,  Daniela,  thanks. 

DANIELA.  I  stay  because  I  pity  you.    You  have  what  you 
want;  I  pity  you. 

She  is  much  exhausted  and  supports  herself  with  the 
aid  of  the  table,  breathing  with  great  difficulty. 


ACT  ii  DANIELA  261 

RAMON.  Yes,  Daniela,  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  I  am  mad 
with  joy.  See,  all  is  still  about — there  is  no  sound.  They 
are  gone,  Daniela,  gone!  And  we  find  ourselves  alone — after 
so  many  years  of  waiting! 

DANIELA.  What?  [Fatting  back]  No,  Ram6n,  no!  Good- 
night, good-night!  [She  staggers  toward  her  own  room. 

RAMON.  [Seizing  her  and  holding  her  fast]  Daniela! 
Daniela,  listen! 

DANIELA.  [Turning]  No,  not  one  word!  I  know  now  that 
I  have  to  die.  My  hours  are  numbered.  My  life  has  ebbed 
today. 

RAMON.  No!    Ah,  no! 

DANIELA.  And  I  must  die  alone. 

RAMON.  You  are  going  to  fall.    Lean  on  me. 

DANIELA.  Let  go!  [She  is  about  to  fall. 

RAMON.  I'll  hold  you  up.  [He  catches  her]  See!  Now  I 
hold  you  up. 

DANIELA.  Let  go!    Let  go! 

RAMON.  [Carrying  her  to  her  room]  I  love  you!    I  love  you! 

DANIELA.  [Repulsing  him]  Your  wife!    Your  children! 

RAMON.  Be  still! 

DANIELA.  Ramon! — God!  [Indignantly] 

RAMON.  I  do  not  hear!    I  am  mad!    I  do  not  hear! 

They  reach  the  door  of  DANIELA'S  room.    As  they  do, 
holding  her  in  his  arms,  he  is  about  to  give  her  a  kiss. 

DANIELA.  [Avoiding  him  furiously]  I  won't  have  it!  I 
won't  have  it! 

RAMON.  [After  having  kissed  her]  In!    In! 

DANIELA.  [Breaking  away  from  him]  No!  No!  Help! 
Help!  [Running  toward  ANTONIA'S  room. 

RAMON.  [Running  after  her]  Be  still!    Be  still! 

DANIELA.  Help! 

She  throws  open  the  door  of  ANTONIA'S  room.    ANTONIA 
is  heard  singing: 


262  DANIELA  ACT  11 

"Mother  of  God,  a  little  child 
Is  laid  upon  thy  breast." 

RAMON.  Oh,  God! 

In  a  voice  of  agony,  but  stifled  for  fear  that  ANTONIA  will 

hear. 
DANIELA.  In  there!  [Pointing  to  the  room.    He  hesitates  an 

instant}  In,  into  your  own! 
RAMON.  Ah!    Wretch  that  I  am! 

[He  rushes  headlong  into  the  room. 

DANIELA.  To  suffocate!     To  die!  [Moving  away]  To  die! 
To  die!    To  die— alone! 

She  staggers  across  the  stage  into  her  own  room  and 
closes  the  door  behind  her.  ANTONIA  continues  her 
song. 

Curtain. 


ACT  III 

The  same.  It  is  a  cloudy  morning.  The  door  of  DANIELA'S 
room  is  closed;  ANTONIA'S  room  stands  open.  The  cradle 
occupies  the  same  position  as  in  the  previous  act,  but  with- 
out  the  child. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  stage  is  empty.  Presently  a  number 
of  little  girls  pass  at  the  back,  talking.  Other  children  follow, 
who  stop  at  the  door;  and  later,  other  children,  who  stop 
also. 

FIRST  CHILD.  Hurry  up,  it's  late! 

SECOND  CHILD.  I'm  not  going  to  run. 

THIRD  CHILD.  [Calling  from  the  door]  Anna!    Anna! 

FOURTH  CHILD.  What's  the  matter  with  Anna? 

THIRD  CHILD.  What  will  Monsa  say  to  you,  Anna? 

FOURTH  CHILD.  Anna,  are  you  asleep? 

ANNA.  [Within]  I'm  coming  as  soon  as  I  finish  my  choco- 
late. 

CHILDREN.  Anna,  Anna!  .  .  .  Monsa  will  fix  you,  Anna! . . . 
Wait  and  see! 

ANNA  enters. 

ANNA.  I've  just  swallowed  my  chocolate.    For  goodness' 
sake! 

CHILDREN.  Here  she  is!    Here  she  is!    Anna's  just  got  up! 
She's  just  got  up! 

ANNA.  No,  I  haven't  either.    Shame  on  you!    [Enter  AN- 
TONIA]  Mamma,  oughtn't  they  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves? 

ANTONIA.  Come   here   and  get  your  'kerchief.     What  a 
child! 

263 


264  DANIEL  A  ACT  in 

ANNA.  I'm  coming!    I'm  coming!    In  a  minuted 

To  the  children  who  are  jumping  up  and  down  at  the 

door. 

ANTONIA.  [Adjusting  the  'kerchief]  Can't  you  stand  still? 
Some  of  the  girls  run  away  from  the  door,  others  promptly 
take  their  places.     There  is  constant  bustle  among  the 
children  who  are  playing,  jumping  up  and  down, 
nibbling  at  candy,  romping  and  striking  one  another, 
but  always  with  the  utmost  good-nature. 
THIRD  CHILD.  [To  ANNA]  I  dressed  myself  and  fixed  my 
hair  all  by  myself.  [Other  children  say  tlie  same. 

ANNA.  You  did?    Now  my  hair-ribbon. 
ANTONIA.  Can't  you  keep  still? 

ANNA.  They're  trying  to  tease  me,  mamma!    Hurry  up! 
ANTONIA.  There!    Now  give  me  a  kiss. 
ANNA.  And  one  for  the  baby!      [Running  up  to  the  cradle. 
ANTONIA.  The  baby  isn't  there. 

ANNA.  Where  is  he?  [Running  to  the  door  of  the  room. 

ANTONIA.  No,  child,  he's  at  your  aunt's. 
ANNA.  [Stamping]  At  my  aunt's?  [Running  out]  I'm  com- 
ing, I'm  coming! 

CHILDREN.  Here  she  is!    Here  she  is!    She's  ready  now! 
ANNA.  I  had  two  cups  of  chocolate.    Mamma  didn't  want 
me  to  have  them  either! 

The  children  rush  up  to  her  and  form  a  ring,  circling 
about  and  singing  as  they  disappear.  Gradually  their 
voices  die  away  in  the  distance.  TOMASETA  enters  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm. 

TOMASETA.  Good-morning,  Antonia!     I  ana  late  today.    I 
should  have  gotten  out  before  this. 
ANTONIA.  Good-morning. 

TOMASETA.  I'm  going  down  to  the  village,  and  I  thought 
I  might  stop  in  and  see  if  there  was  anything  you  wanted  me 
to  do. 


ACT  HI  DANIEL  A  265 

ANTONIA.  No,  nothing  this  morning,  Tomaseta.  I  was  at 
the  village  day  before  yesterday,  and  tended  to  everything 
myself. 

TOMASETA.  I  suppose  you  did.  You  have  to  lay  in  such 
lots  of  stuff  for  Daniela.  I  daresay,  though,  she  pays  for 
everything  herself. 

ANTONIA.  You'll  have  to  ask  Ramon  about  that. 

TOMASETA.  It  takes  my  breath  away  to  think  of  so  much 
money  being  spent  at  every  meal. — Do  you  suppose  Daniela 
wants  anything  this  morning? 

ANTONIA.  She  isn't  up  yet. 

TOMASETA.  She  isn't  up?   Perhaps  I'd  better  wait  and  see. 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  wait  as  long  as  you  like. 
Enter  ANDREW. 

ANDREW.  Antonia,  where's  Ramon? 

ANTONIA.  He's  up  at  the  house,  working. 

ANDREW.  Oh!  Never  mind  then.  I've  just  finished  break- 
fast and  thought  I'd  drop  in.  Hello!  Who's  here? 

TOMASETA.  When  you  are  supposed  to  be  busy,  what 
you  are  really  doing  is  gossiping  with  the  neighbors. 

ANDREW.  It  began  to  rain  as  I  was  coming  along  the 
road. 

TOMASETA.  What?    And  I  haven't  been  to  the  village. 

ANDREW.  The  masons  finished  the  porch  this  morning. 

TOMASETA.  I  hear  you  had  company  yesterday — actors. 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  I  think  they  were;  something  of  the  sort. 

TOMASETA.  What  did  they  have  to  say? 

ANTONIA.  Nothing. 

ANDREW.  [Laughing]  Oh,  they  had  something  to  say! 
PONA  enters,  carrying  a  basket  of  cherries. 

PONA.  Good-morning.  Your  wife's  looking  for  you,  An- 
drew.— I'm  all  wet  through. 

ANDREW.  My  wife?    Where  is  she? 

PONA.  Didn't  you  hear  her  call? 


266  DANIELA  ACT  in 

ANDREW.  She  can  wait.  Don't  tell  her  I  was  here,  An- 
tonia. 

TOMASETA.  Why  not? 

ANDREW.  You  know.    She's  jealous! 
.     [Pointing  to  DANIELA'S  room.     They  all  begin  to  laugh. 

PONA.  You're   a   perfect   devil,    Andrew!  [To   ANTONIA, 
showing  the  cherries]  Aren't  they  fine  cherries?     I  made  up 
my  mind  I'd  better  get  them  off  the  trees  before  it  began  to 
rain.    Perhaps  Daniela  would  like  some. 
*  ANTONIA.  I'll  ask  her  when  she  gets  up. 

PONA.  What?    Isn't  she  up  yet? 

ANDREW.  Oh,  that's  the  French  of  it;  they  turn  day  into 
night.  [To  PONA]  Don't  you  want  to  look  and  see  if  my  wife's 
there?  [PoNA  goes  to  the  door  to  look. 

TOMASETA.  I  must  go  on  to  the  village. 

ANTONIA.  Call  her  if  you  like. 

TOMASETA.  No,  I'll  wait  .  .  .  [To  ANTONIA]  Caramba! 
Those  actors!  [Laughing] 

[ANTONIA  moves  away  from  TOMASETA,  uneasily. 

PONA.  [To  ANDREW]  She's  sitting  down  by  the  gate, 
sewing.  [Looking  out  of  tJie  door] 

ANDREW.  Well,  I  haven't  done  anything  anyway.  [He 
puts  down  a  shoe  which  lie  had  taken  up]  She  might  sew  up  her 
tongue. 

TOMASETA.  [To  ANTONIA]  Do  you  tliink  Daniela  is  going 
to  get  well? 

ANTONIA.  How  should  I  know? 

PONA.  She's  building  a  house. 

TOMASETA.  That  shows  she  likes  it  here. 

PONA.  Yes.    But  I  seem  to  be  wasting  my  time. 

ANDREW.  [To  PONA]  Will  you  do  me  a  favor  when  you  go? 

PONA.  What  is  it? 

ANDREW.  When  you  pass  my  wife,  stand  in  front  of  her 
so  that  I  can  slip  out, 


ACT  in  DANIELA  267 

PONA.  Go  along,  holy  man. 

TOMASETA.  I'm  going  to  tell  her  you're  here. 

ANDREW.  I'll  get  even  with  you  if  you  do. 

ANTONIA.  [Surprised]  What's  the  matter? 

Returning  from  her  room  into  which  she  has  stepped  for 
a  moment. 

PONA.  He's  afraid  his  wife  will  find  him  out. 

ANDREW.  I'm  afraid  of  her?  The  trouble  is  that  she's 
afraid  of  me. 

PONA.  I'm  going  to  call  Daniela.  [To  ANTONIA]  We  can't 
wait  any  longer. 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  call  her. 

PONA.  [Going  up  to  the  door]  Daniela!  Get  up,  Daniela! 
I've  brought  you  a  basket  of  cherries  from  the  garden. 
[Leaving  the  door}  Now  she'll  get  up. 

TOMASETA.  What  time  is  it? 

ANDREW.  It  must  be  eight  o'clock. 

PONA.  A  quarter  to  nine.  [Going  back  to  the  door]  Daniela! 
Daniela!  [Coming  away  again]  I've  got  a  day's  work  to  do — 
and  two  boys  who  don't  do  a  thing  but  wear  out  their  shoes. 

ANDREW.  Thank  God  I  haven't  got  any  girls! 

PONA.  Do  you  hear  what  he  is  thanking  God  for? 

[TOMASETA  goes  up  to  DANIELA'S  door  and  listens. 

TOMASETA.  I  can't  hear  any  tiling;  she  must  be  asleep. 
Daniela,  don't  you  want  anything  from  the  village?  [Listen- 
ing at  the  door]  If  you  want  anything  from  the  village,  it's 
I — I,  Tomaseta. 

[Making  a  sign  to  tne  others  that  she  doesn't  hear  anything. 

ANDREW.  There — now! 

TOMASETA.  No — not  a  sound. 

PONA.  See  if  she'll  hear  me.  Daniela!  Daniela!  [Knock- 
ing loudly}  Daniela! 

TOMASETA.  [At  some  distance  from  the  door]  Wait  a 
minute  .  .  , 


268  DANIELA  ACT  in 

ANDREW.  Keep  still! 

[PoNA  lays  her  ear  against  the  door,  listening. 
ANTONIA.  What  can  the  matter  be? 

PONA.  Something  must  have  happened.  [She  knocks  again. 
The  children  can  be  heard  in  the  distance,  singing  at 

school. 

ANDREW.  She  can't  be  in  bed.     She  must  have  gone  out. 
TOMASETA.  Oh,  of  course! 
ANTONIA.  She  always  gets  up  late. 

PONA.  Monsa  will  be  sure  to  know.  [Exit  PONA,  running. 
TOMASETA.  Come  right  back,  Pona. 

ANDREW.  Now  I  know  where  she  is — where  she  spends  all 
her  time.  Up  at  the  house  with  Ramon! 

TOMASETA.  To  be  sure!  She  told  me  to  come  up  there 
this  morning  and  see  her,  and  since  it's  raining  she  is  afraid 
to  come  down.  Why  didn't  we  think  of  that  before? 

[The  children  have  stopped  singing.     PONA  re-enters. 
PONA.  Monsa  says  she  hasn't  seen  her  pass. 
ANDREW.  Why  should  Monsa  see  everything? 

Enter  MONSA. 

MONSA.  No,  Daniela  hasn't  gone  out. 
TOMASETA.  Then  she'd  be  in  her  room,  and  she  isn't  there. 
MONSA.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it.    Let's  see  if  she 
isn't  there.  [After  looking  through  the  keyhole]  Daniela! 

The  others  converse  among  themselves.    MONSA  listens 

after  having  ca  Ued. 
PONA.  It's  very  strange. 
ANTONIA.  Pona!  [So  as  to  be  able  to  hear} 
MONSA.  [Again  looking  through  the  keyhole]  Everything  is 
dark.    If  she'd  gone  out,  she'd  have  opened  the  windows. 

PONA.  But  if  she  hadn't,  she'd  be  in  there,  and  then  she'd 
answer. 

ANDREW.  And  she  doesn't.  That's  what  makes  all  the 
trouble. 


ACT  in  DANIELA 

MONSA.  Daniela!     Daniela! — What  has  happened?  [She 
runs  her  finger  into  the  keyhole]  The  door's  locked  and  the 
key's  inside.    Daniela's  in  there! 
ANTONIA.  Holy  Mother! 
PONA.  How  are  we  ever  going  to  get  in? 
MONSA.  Get  some  tools — a  hammer  and  chisel,  quick! 
ANTONIA.  And  call  Ram6n. 
PONA.  Hurry! 

[Exit  TOMASETA  at  the  back. 
MONSA.  [Banging  on  the  door]  Daniela! 

Re-enter  TOMASETA  with  RAMON. 
RAMON.  What's  the  matter? 

TOMASETA.  Daniela  hasn't  opened  the  door.    She  doesn't 
answer. 

MONSA.  Daniela's  in  there  and  doesn't  answer. 
RAMON.  Have  you  called  her?     Out  loud? 

ANTONIA  draws  a  little  to  one  side  at  the  entrance  of 

RAMON. 

MONSA.    Yes.    [Shaking   the   door]    It's    locked    on    the 
inside. 
RAMON.  Daniela!    Daniela! 

[Throwing  himself  against  the  door, 
MONSA.  Bring  a  hammer,  an  ax! 
RAMON.  No,  no — I'm  here. 

Thrusting  his  shoulder  against  the  door,  preparatory  to 

forcing  it  open.    ANDREW  comes  to  help  him. 
MONSA.  Now  both  together!     Push! 
TOMASETA.  [To  ANTONIA]  Poor  Daniela! 
ANTONIA.  Yes. 

MONSA.  Push!    Now!  [By  the  door] 
RAMON.  Wait!    Now  push,  man.    There! 

[The  door  opens  wiih  a  crash. 
MONSA.  Daniela!  [Entering  first] 
ANTONIA,  No,  me! — let  me  go  first. 


270  DANIELA  ACT  in 

She  runs  in  oefore  PONA  and  TOMASETA,  who  follow  her. 
RAMON  starts  to  enter,  but  falls  back.     The  women  are 
heard  talking  within  the  room. 
ANDRKW.  [  To  RAMON]  Maybe  she's  . . . 
RAMON.  [Trying  to  listen]  Don't  talk  to  me! 
MONSA.  [From  the  room]  Daniela! 
ANTONIA.  Lift  up  her  head. 
MONSA.  Hold  her.     Hold  her — so. 
TOMASETA.  Daniela! 
RAMON.  Oh,  Andrew!  [Anxiously] 

MONSA.  She  doesn't  answer.     She  doesn  t  speak  a  word. 
PONA.  Don't  let  her  fall. 

[RAMON,  greatly  distressed,  is  about  to  enter  the  room. 
ANTONIA.  [Confronting  him  at  the  door]  No,  Ram6n! 
RAMON.  How  is  she?  [Wishing  to  know  if  she  is  dead] 
ANTONIA.  [Sympathetically]  She's  alive!  She  has  opened  her 
eyes.    I  came  out  to  tell  you.  [RAMON  falls  back]  The  Doctor! 
RAMON.  [To  ANDREW]  Run  for  the  Doctor — and  Valentine, 
too.    Hurry!  [Exit  ANDREW. 

PONA.  [To  ANTONIA,  coming  out  of  the  room]  Quick,  An- 
tonia!    Salts — have  you  any  salts? 
ANTONIA.  They  are  on  the  table  in  my  room. 

ANTONIA  re-enters  DANIELA'S  room;   PONA  runs  into 

ANTONIA'S. 

RAMON.  [Going  up  to  the  door  of  DANIELA'S  room]  I  must 
see  her. 

[To  MONSA,  who  appears,  waiting  for  the  return  of  PONA. 
MONSA.  [Severely]  You  can't  come  in.    Why  doesn't  she 
hurry?    [Impatiently] 

RAMON.  [To  MONSA]  If  you  let  her  die! ... 
PONA.  [Re-entering  with  the  bottle]  Here  they  are. 
MONSA.  Give  them  to  me. 

[She  takes  the  bottle  and  runs  back  into  DANIELA'S  room. 
PONA.  [To  RAMON]  We  were  sitting  here  all  the  while  just 


ACT  in  DANIELA  271 

as  calmly  as  you  please.    Who  would  ever  have  believed  that 
she  was  in  there  like  that? 

RAMON  moves  away  so  as  not  to  hear  her;  she  disappears 
into  DANIELA'S  room. 

MONSA.  [In  the  room]  It's  I,  I — Daniela. 

PONA.  Now  she  knows  us. 

MONSA.  [Laughing]  Yes,  we're  all  your  friends.  Yes,  this 
is  Antonia;  she  loves  you,  too.  [RAMON  starts. 

TOMASETA.  [Re-entering;  to  RAMON]  She's  better  now. 

PONA.  [Re-entering]  Why  do  people  have  to  suffer  so?  I'm 
all  a-tremble. 

TOMASETA.  [To  RAMON]  Perhaps  you'd  better  take  some- 
thing— and  Antonia  too.  We'd  all  better  take  something 
on  account  of  the  shock. 

Enter  VALENTINE,  carrying  an  umbrella. 

VALENTINE.  Here  he  is! 

RAMON.  At  last! 

TOMASETA.  But  I  am  glad! 

Enter  ANDREW,  also  vrith  an  umbrella. 

ANDREW.  He's  here!    The  Doctor! 

PONA.  I'll  run  and  tell  them.  [Exit  into  DANIELA'S  room. 

TOMASETA.  Not  too  much  noise!    [Exit,  running  after  her. 

RAMON.  [To  VALENTINE]  Wait  by  the  door;  let  nobody  in. 
Exit  VALENTINE.    DON  JOAQUIM  enters  with  an  um- 
brella. 

RAMON.  Don  Joaqufm,  Daniela  is  dying. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  So  soon?    You  surprise  me. 

RAMON.  For  God's  sake,  Doctor,  hurry!  If  she  should 
die  ... 

DON  JOAQUIM.  How?  [Surprised  at  his  manner  of  speaking. 

RAMON.  You  mustn't  let  her  die! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Pausing]  Why,  Ram6n!    What  is  this? 

RAMON.  Quick,  quick! 

TOMASETA.  Ay,  Senor  Doctor!  [Within] 


272  DANIELA  ACT  in 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I'm  coming.     I'm  coming. 

[He  goes  into  DANIELA'S  room. 

PONA.  [Coming  out  as  the  doctor  enters]  She's  resting  more 
quietly. 

ANDREW.  [To  TOMASETA,  who  is  at  the  door]  How  do  you 
think  she  is,  Tomaseta? 

TOMASETA.  Much  better.    She's  trying  to  raise  herself  up. 

PONA.  Now  we'll  see  what  the  Doctor  will  do  to  her. 

ANDREW.  Humph!  Doctors  always  come  too  late.  The 
patient's  either  dead  or  well  already. 

TOMASETA.  Now  he'll  try  to  make  us  believe  he's  cured 
her. 

PONA.  If  I  hadn't  stopped  in  with  the  cherries  .  .  . 

TOMASETA.  If  I  hadn't  called  Ramon  to  break  down  the 
door  .  .  . 

ANDREW.  If  I  hadn't  helped  him  break  it  down  .  .  . 

[RAMON  paces  anxiously  to  and  fro  across  tlie  room. 

TOMASETA.  [To  RAMON]  I  wonder  what  could  have  given 
Daniela  such  a  shock? 

RAMON.  Leave  me  alone!  Don't  you  see  how  I  feel?  .  .  . 
[TOMASETA  endeavors  to  interrupt  him]  That's  right — stand 
there  and  stare!  Amuse  yourselves  with  our  misfortunes. 
You've  always  amused  yourselves  with  the  misfortunes  of  this 
house.  [He  turns  away  from  them  and  continues  talking  to  him- 
self] Why  was  I  ever  born?  To  suffer?  Never  to  be  happy 
from  one  year's  end  to  the  next — hating  and  despising  my- 
self, like  one  lost!  For  I  am  lost,  damned  utterly,  through 
this  world  and  the  next!  I  care  for  no  man!  My  hand  is 
against  them  all!  [To  ANDREW,  who  is  following  him]  Yes, 
talk!  That's  right— talk! 

TOMASETA.  Ay,  Ram6n! 

PONA.  But  we  ... 

ANDREW.  I ... 

RAMON.  I  tell  you,  I  am  not  myself.    But  I've  got  to  know 


ACT  in  DANIELA  273 

what  is  going  on  in  that  room.     If  she's  going  to  die  I've  got 
to  know  it. 

He  rushes  up  to  the  door,  but  halts  at  the  entrance  of 
MONSA.  They  all  surround  her,  excepting  only 
RAMON,  who  draws  back  for  fear  of  bad  news. 

MONSA.  She's  talking  alone  with  the  Doctor — as  if  she 
wanted  to  confess. 

PONA.  How  is  she? 

MONSA.  Better,  I  told  you. 

TOMASETA.  [To  PONA]  Of  course  she's  better. 

MONSA.  [To  TOMASETA]  Go  and  look  after  the  children. 
There  is  nobody  to  take  care  of  the  school. 

TOMASETA.  I'll  see  to  them. 

MONSA  returns  to  the  room.  TOMASETA  prepares  to 
leave. 

ANDREW.  [To  TOMASETA]  Take  my  wife  with  you,  do  you 
hear? 

TOMASETA.  Get  out!  [Exit. 

ANDREW.  That's  it.    I  can't  get  out! 

PONA.  Here  comes  the  Doctor. 

RAMON.  [Aside]  What  will  he  say  now?  [Enter  DON 
JOAQUIM]  What  is  it,  Doctor?  How  is  she? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Reserved]  Resting  quietly. 

PONA.  She's  not  in  any  danger,  Doctor? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  No!  [Forbidding  them  to  speak]  I  tell  you  no! 

RAMON.  Thanks,  Don  Joaqufm!  Thanks!  You  don't 
know  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  you  say  so. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Not  so  fast.  [To  the  others]  I  must  ask  you 
all  to  leave — to  leave  immediately.  It  is  absolutely  essential. 
[To  RAMON]  Let  no  one  else  in.  There  has  been  far  too  much 
confusion  already. 

RAMON.  No  one  shall  come  in,  I  promise  you. 

PONA.  Very  well,  Doctor.  [To  RAMON]  If  we  can  do  any- 
thing .  .  . 


274  DANIEL  A  ACT  in 

RAMON.  Thanks. 

ANDREW.  [To  DON  JOAQUIM]  Must  I  go  too? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Certainly. 

ANDREW.  Wait,  Poiia! 

PONA.  What's  the  matter? 

[She  is  already  outside  the  door. 

ANDREW.  Stay  on  this  side. 

PONA.  On  this  side? 

ANDREW.  And  don't  run  too  fast. 

[PoNA  and  ANDREW  retire. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [To  RAMON]  Why  didn't  you  go  into  the 
room  with  me? 

RAMON.  Because — Doctor,  I  cannot  go  into  her  room — 
I  am  not  the  man  you  think.  You  do  not  understand.  I 
am  not  myself.  I ...  [With  desperation] 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Yes,  I  understand.    You're  a  ... 

[He  is  about  to  use  a  disagreeable  word. 

RAMON.  A  wild  man,  Don  Joaquim!    A  beast!    Disgraced! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  No,  you  are  a  man  whose  heart  is  evil. 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible  tliat  you  could  have 
changed  like  this.  One  finger  of  that  woman's  hand  is  worth 
more  than  your  whole  body. 

RAMON.  I  am  disgraced. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  She  has  shown  more  feeling  than  you  have, 
more  sense  of  right.  It  is  not  she  who  has  wished  to  dishonor 
this  house.  Can  you  deny  it? 

RAMON.  No. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  You  have  persecuted  her,  you  have  humili- 
ated her.  You  have  done  everything  in  your  power,  both 
you  and  your  wife,  to  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  enjoy  that 
peace  of  which  she  stood  so  sorely  in  need.  You  have  killed 
her. 

RAMON.  Killed  her,  Don  Joaqufm?     Daniela? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  You  have  killed  her.    She  is  as  dead  as  the 


ACT  in  DANIELA  275 

dead  in  their  graves  already.  Remember,  I  charged  you  a 
hundred  times,  and  Antonia  too,  not  to  excite  her,  not  to 
cross  her  in  anything.  In  any  case  death  would  have  ensued 
before  long — the  French  doctor  predicted  it  and  I  foresaw  it 
clearly,  but  it  lay  hi  your  power  to  prolong  her  life  a  little, 
and  to  render  her  days  happy  and  peaceful  at  the  close. 
Re-enter  MONSA  and  ANTONIA. 

MONSA.  How  is  she,  Doctor? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Dead,  unless  for  a  miracle. 

[ANTONIA  looks  at  RAMON. 

MONSA.  Don  Joaquhn! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  And  you  must  not  expect  me  to  work 
miracles. 

MONSA.  But,  Doctor,  she's  sleeping  quietly  .  .  . 

DON  JOAQUIM.  It  makes  no  matter.  Oh,  if  I  only  had  it 
to  do  over  again! 

RAMON.  What  would  you  do? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  When  they  wrote  to  me  that  they  were 
going  to  send  her  here,  I  ought  to  have  forbidden  it.  Her 
stay  in  this  village  was  sure  to  prove  fatal.  I  felt  it  from  the 
beginning.  With  your  narrow-mindedness  she  was  certain 
to  be  hounded  to  death. 

ANTONIA.  Doctor,  but  I — I  thought  .  .  . 

DON  JOAQUIM.  You  thought?  Have  you  ever  once  thought 
of  showing  a  land  heart?  You  have  persecuted  her  with 
insults — I  have  seen  it  myself  repeatedly.  And  when  I  took 
you  to  task  for  it,  you  imagined  that  I  was  conspiring  against 
you. 

MONSA.  Doctor! 

DON  JOAQUIM.  Poor  woman,  you  are  the  only  one  who  has 
not  considered  yourself,  who  has  had  the  grace  to  be  true. 
I  don't  know  what  we'd  do  without  you,  either. 

ANTONIA.  [Weeping]  But,  Doctor,  I  was  a  stranger  in  my 
own  house,  and  I'm  Ram6n's  wife,  and  she  .  .  . 


276  DANIELA  ACT  in 

DON  JOAQUIM.  She?  What  did  she  ever  do  to  you?  She 
has  respected  you.  Another  woman — I  should  have  liked  to 
see  it — another  woman  in  her  place  might  not  have  returned 
good  for  evil;  she  might  have  revenged  herself. 

MONSA.  Shall  we  wake  her  for  the  medicines? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  No,  let  her  sleep  while  she  is  able.  And 
don't  let  these  people  disturb  her!  [He  is  about  to  go. 

ANTONIA.  Doctor,  I'll  never  disturb  her. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I'll  call  again  this  afternoon;  meanwhile 
continue  with  the  medicines  as  before. 

MONSA.  Don't  delay,  Don  Joaqufm. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I  repeat,  don't  let  these  people  disturb  her. 

ANTONIA.  I'll  lock  the  door.  [Standing  beside  it. 

RAMON.  [Drawing  near  Hie  door]  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me, 
Doctor,  that  there  is  no  hope — cost  what  it  may? 

[DANIELA  appears  at  tfic  door  of  her  room. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  I  have  just  told  you — she  is  as  good  as 
dead  already.  And  you  are  the  cause  of  her  death — you  and 
your  wife! 

RAMON.  But  if  we  want  a  consultation? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  A  consultation! 

MONSA.  Suppose  she  tries  to  get  up? 

DON  JOAQUIM.  It  makes  no  difference.  In  the  end  it  will 
be  the  same. 

RAMON.  [Going  out  with  the  doctor]  But,  Doctor,  a  consulta- 
tion .  .  .  [Tlicy  are  already  outside. 

DON  JOAQUIM.  [Without]  She  is  dead,  I  tell  you.  She  is 
dead  already!  [MoNSA  closes  the  door  behind  them. 

ANTONIA.  Daniela! 

MONSA.  [Running  up  to  her]  What  did  you  get  up  for? 

DANIELA.  Because  I  wanted  air  and  light.  Because  I 
want  to  live.  [They  help  her  to  a  chair. 

MONSA.  You're  better  now,  Daniela,  much  better.  It  was 
only  an  attack  of  weakness.  The  Doctor  said  so. 


ACT  in  DANIELA  277 

DANIELA.  Yes,  I  am  much  better. 

[She  turns  around  to  look  for  RAMON. 

MONSA.  What  is  it?    What  do  you  want? 

DANIELA.  I  want  .  .  .  [Looking  at  ANTONIA]  Nothing, 
nothing. 

MONSA.  Are  you  more  comfortable  now? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  yes,  more  comfortable — now.  I  passed  a 
horrible  night. 

MONSA.  Why  didn't  you  call? 

DANIELA.  Call?    Whom?  [With  desperation] 

MONSA.  Anybody. 

DANIELA.  [To  MONSA,  aside]  Hush!  [Then  aloud]  I — I 
heard  you  when  you  knocked  on  the  door — but  I  wasn't  able 
to  open  my  lips  and  reply.  Daniela!  Daniela!  And  I 
was  lying  there  in  bed  not  able  to  move,  not  even  to  open 
my  eyes.  Maybe  when  death  comes  I  shall  be  lying  there, 
all  wide  awake  and  still,  and  I  will  hear  you  call,  Daniela, 
Daniela! — and  not  be  able  to  reply.  Will  you  kiss  me, 
Monsa,  when  I  die? — My  Monsa  since  I  was  a  child!  Will 
you  kiss  me  when  I  die? 

MONSA.  But  you  are  better.    You  are  not  going  to  die. 

DANIELA.  [Irritated,  like  a  child]  No,  don't  tell  me  that. 
Will  you  kiss  me  when  I  die? 

MONSA.  Yes,  yes.    Of  course. 

DANIELA.  And  Antonia — will  you  still  hate  me,  after  I  am 
gone? 

ANTONIA.  [Much  affected]  No,  Daniela!    No. 

DANIELA.  Will  you  treat  me  the  same  then?  Will  you 
still  call  me  what  you've  called  me  so  many  times? 

ANTONIA.  No,  no!    Never  again! 

DANIELA.  Wanton,  eh? 

MONSA.  You  must  be  quiet,  Daniela. 

ANTONIA.  No,  Daniela,  I  don't  wish  you  any  harm;  I 
want  you  to  get  well.  [Weeping] 


278  DANIELA  ACT  in 

DANIELA.  Will  you  kiss  me  then,  Antonia? 

ANTONIA.  Yes,  just  like  Monsa!    Just  the  same  as  she. 

DANIELA.  When  I  am  dead,  eh?  But  not  the  same  as  she! 
It  will  not  be  the  same.  For  Monsa  will  kiss  me  as  she  used 
to  do  when  we  were  girls  together,  and  she  will  try  to  shield 
me  now  from  death  because  she  wants  to  have  me  live.  But 
you  will  kiss  me  because  I  have  to  die,  and  they  are  coming 
to  make  the  cross  upon  me — the  cross  upon  the  dead! 

MONSA.  No,  no,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Daniela.  The 
Doctor  wants  you  to  be  quiet. 

ANTONIA.  Yes. 

DANIELA.  Everybody  will  forgive  me  after  I  am  gone.  My 
sins  will  be  washed  out;  I  shall  be  white  as  snow.  And 
since  I  have  to  die  without  confession  .  .  .  [They  try  to  speak, 
but  she  prevents  them]  .  .  .  you  think  you'll  pardon  me  a  little 
in  advance,  and  let  me  know  beforehand  that  I'll  be  forgiven 
and  absolved.  [She  looks  at  ANTONIA] 

MONSA.  [Forcing  herself  to  laugh]  But,  Daniela,  you're  not 
going  to  die. 

DANIELA.  I  am  going  to  die.    The  Doctor  said  so. 

ANTONIA.  He  didn't  say  so. 

MONSA.  He  said  just  the  opposite. 

DANIELA.  Oh,  no,  no!  I  was  there,  and  I  heard  him  say 
so.  [Pointing  to  the  door  of  the  room]  And  when  he  said  so, 
[To  ANTONIA]  I  looked  at  you — and  you  looked  at  Ramon, 
and  you  smiled. 

ANTONIA.  No!    That  would  have  been  a  mortal  sin. 

DANIELA.  [Laughing]  You  didn't  see  that  you  smiled,  but  I 
saw!  I  saw! 

MONSA.  [Compassionately]  You're  so  weak,  Daniela. 

DANIELA.  [Overcome]  Yes!  I  am  dying.  In  all  the  world 
there  is  no  help  for  me.  [With  sudden  resolution]  But  all  men 
have  pity  on  the  dying,  and  now  you  have  to  pity  me,  because 
I  can  do  no  one  any  harm.  Like  a  broken,  withered  branch, 


ACT  in  DANIELA  279 

I  am  clinging  to  the  tree.  [She  rises  from  the  chair,  supported 
by  the  women]  I'll  not  do  you  any  harm.  [Sadly,  to  ANTONIA] 
Be  happy  with  your  children.  Lay  your  boy  in  the  cradle 
and  rock  him  to  sleep.  I'll  not  be  here  to  come  near  you  nor 
disturb  you  nor  to  kiss  your  boy.  I'll  let  you  be.  I  am  alone 
in  the  world,  and  I  must  go  alone.  [Pointing  to  the  sky. 

MONSA.  Nonsense,  Daniela. 

ANTONIA.  Daniela,  you  mustn't  treat  me  so.  I  hated  you 
because  I  believed  what  wasn't  true — I  was  afraid.  Ramon 
hated  me.  You  would  have  done  the  same  in  my  place. 
You  would  have  done  the  same. 

The  children  are  heard  singing  at  school;  only  DANIELA 
notices  the  song. 

DANIELA.  They  are  singing — singing!  You  live  in  them, 
in  the  children,  Monsa!  Listen,  listen!  You've  a  corner 
hi  the  heart  of  every  one.  Listen!  Ah!  It's  like  a  great 
choir! 

ANTONIA.  [Pleadingly]  Daniela!    Daniela! 

DANIELA.  Don't  speak  to  me, — I  hear  them  singing.  I 
am  breathing  in  their  song!  Then*  life  fills  my  breast.  Ah! 
[To  ANTONIA]  Leave  me,  leave  me!  For  now  I  envy  you. 
For  you  are  going  to  live  on  in  the  world  and  be  happy, 
afloat  on  an  ocean  of  joy !  [She  looks  at  her]  But  for  me  there 
is  nothing — nothing!  No  laughter  nor  smiles  any  more,  for 
I  am  dying  of  thirst,  and  look! — there  is  so  much  water 
everywhere. 

ANTONIA.  Daniela! 

MONSA.  Leave  her,  Antonia. 

DANIELA.  But  I  know  where  there  is  water  for  me,  and  I 
mean  to  have  it.  I  mean  to  drink.  [She  laughs  hysterically] 
Yes,  I  mean  to  drink.  I  will  have  it,  too!  [Aside,  to  MONSA] 
Send  her  away!  Monsa,  send  her  away! 

MONSA.  Leave  us  for  a  little  while. 

ANTONIA.  If  you  think  best, 


280  DAN  I  EL  A  ACT  in 

MONSA.  I'll  calm  her;  then  you  can  come  back. 
ANTONIA.  I'll  run  after  the  boy. 
MONSA.  Do. 

Exit  ANTONIA  to  Hie  rear.    MONSA  follows  lier  to  the  door 

and  closes  it  behind  her. 

DANIELA.  [A  side]  Now  to  be  happy!   I  must  be  happy,  too! 
MONSA.  [Returning]  You  must   be   quiet,  Daniela,  very, 
very  quiet.     I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  house. 

DANIELA.  The  house?    I  give  it  to  you  for  the  school.    It 
shall  be  yours. 

MONEA.  No.     [Wishing  to  change  Hie  subject 
DANIELA.  Yours  and  the  children's.     And  everything  I 
have  shall  be  yours — and  the  children's.     With  it,  you  will 
be  so  much  richer  than  I!    [MONSA  weeps]    Has  Antonia 
gone? 

MONSA.  Yes. 

DANIELA.  Then  call  Ram6n.    Quick!   For  I  want  my  share 
of  happiness,  my  hour  of  life!    All  ought  not  to  be  for  others. 
Through  the  scenes  which  follow,  DANIELA  becomes  de- 
lirious from  time  to  time,  in  greater  or  less  degree, 
as  is  apparent  from  her  manner  and  speech. 
MONSA.  What  do  you  say? 
DANIELA.  Ram6n!    I  want  Ramon!    Call  him. 
MONSA.  He's  coming,  Daniela. 

DANIELA.  [Becoming  impatient]  But  I've  no  time  to  lose. 
I  want  Ram6n! 

MONSA.  Listen  to  me! 
DANIELA.  Ram6n! 
MONSA.  But  he's  coming,  I  tell  you. 
DANIELA.  Ram6n!    Ram6n! 
MONSA.  Ay,  but  he'll  soon  be  here! 

*  [Not  knowing  what  to  do. 

DANIELA.  Ram6n!    Ramon!    I  want  Ram6n! 
[Enter  RAMON. 


ACT  in  DANIELA  281 

RAMON.  Daniela!  [He  closes  the  door. 

DANIELA.  Ah,  he's  here!    You  heard  me  call? 

RAMON.  Yes,  I  heard  you. 

DANIELA.  My  Ram6n!  Ramon  of  the  old  days!  Ram6n 
that  used  to  be  a  boy  with  me! 

RAMON.  Yes,  it  is  I!  I — your  Ramon,  who  will  never  leave 
you  any  more! 

DANIELA.  Never! .  .  . 

RAMON.  Daniela,  how  are  you?  Courage!  See,  the  tower 
of  the  chalet  is  mounting  higher  and  higher,  and  the  church 
tower  will  soon  be  left  far  below. 

DANIELA.  Yes.  But  I  must  make  haste.  I  must  make 
haste!  [Breathing  with  great  difficulty. 

MONSA.  You'd  better  let  me  get  you  something. 

DANIELA.  No,  I  want  to  talk  to  Ram6n.    I  want  to  tell 

him  so  many  things  about  my  journey;    for   I  am  going. 

Leave  us,  leave  us,  Monsa!    I'll  call  you,  Monsa!    Monsetta! 

{Throwing  her  arms  about  her  neck. 

MONSA.  Daniela.    Daniela!  [Embracing  her. 

DANIELA.  Thanks  for  every  thing!    Thanks! 

MONSA.  [To  RAMON]  I'll  be  with  the  children  when  you 
want  me. 

RAMON.  I'll  call  you  soon. 

[Exit  MONSA.    RAMON  closes  the  door. 

DANIELA.  Ram6n,  Ramon,  Ramon!  [RAMON  turns  to  her] 
Ah!  [With  satisfaction]  Listen! 

RAMON.  What  is  it,  Daniela? 

DANIELA.  You  have  never  left  this  village?  You  have 
never  traveled  very  far? 

RAMON.  No.    Why? 

DANIELA.  Suppose  that  I  should  say  to  you,  Ramon,  that 
there  is  still  one  way  left  to  save  my  life — one  way,  and  only 
one:  to  carry  me  away,  and  let  me  live. 

RAMON.  Then  I  would   do  it.    Anything  to  save  your 


282  DANIELA  ACT  in 

life.  I  have  been  acting  for  so  many  years.  All  the  while  I 
yearned  to  come  to  you — I  said  to  myself  to  kill  you,  but  I 
knew  it  was  not  so.  I  was  only  trying  to  deceive  myself,  to 
find  an  excuse  to  go.  For  I  was  always  yours,  and  I  would 
have  ended  at  your  side,  your  slave.  How  many  times  your 
voice  has  called  to  me,  yet  at  the  moment  that  I  most  longed 
to  go  my  heart  held  back;  I  could  not.  On  the  brink  my 
head  turned,  I  sickened  with  disgust.  I  don't  know  how. 
But  if  I  would  have  gone  with  you  then,  Daniela,  how  much 
more  would  I  go  with  you  now — now,  to  save  your  life! 

DANIELA.  It  is  the  brink.  Do  you  know,  it  is  the  brink? 
And  the  deeper  the  chasm  the  louder  it  calls,  and  the  more 
surely  it  sucks  us  down.  Ramon,  what  is  there  left  to  me  of 
life,  if  I  should  want  to  live? 

RAMON.  You  must  live.    I  want  you  to. 

DANIELA.  Then  let  us  fly  together. 

RAMON.  Fly?    You  say,  let  us  fly  together? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  for  as  I  am  now,  no  one  would  deny  me 
anything — no  more  than  they  would  a  condemned  man. 

RAMON.  But  you  are  not  ill,  Daniela. 

DANIELA.  No — no.  [Firmly]  Listen !  What  difference  does 
it  make  to  you?  If  I  am  ill — out  of  my  head,  mad,  what  of  it? 
You  said  that  you  loved  me  and  wanted  to  make  me  happy. 
Then  let  me  be  happy.  Let  me  be  happy,  then,  with  you! 
[With  delirious  excitement]  Come!  Let  us  fly  far  away — to 
Paris! — to  live,  to  intoxicate  ourselves  with  life!  For  here 
something  gnaws  at  my  heart,  and  with  every  look  you  re- 
venge yourself  on  me. 

RAMON.  I  revenge  myself? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  you  assassinate  me!  But  quickly,  Ram6n, 
quickly,  while  we  may.  Throw  me  over  your  shoulder  when 
I  cannot  walk,  catch  me  up  in  your  arms,  fling  me  about  your 
neck — I  do  not  care — snatch  me  away  from  death!  We 
will  fly  with  our  heads  bowed  to  the  ground  like  the  criminal 


ACT  in  DANIELA  283 

faster,  faster,  through  the  dark,  speaking  to  no  man.  And 
it  may  be  that  we  can  hide  from  death,  and  that  he  will  come 
and  look  for  us,  and  look  in  vain,  and  that  we  will  laugh  at 
him  because  he  cannot  find  us! 

RAMON.  Daniela,  be  calm!  Daniela,  I  want  what  you 
want.  When  I  am  with  you,  there  is  nothing  else  in  all  the 
world  for  me.  There  is  nothing  else  but  you.  I  would  give 
everything  I  have  to  save  your  life. 

DANIELA.  Then  fly — fly  with  me  from  death.  Look! 
Look!  [She  moves  backward,  with  a  hoarse  cry,  seeming  to 
avoid  the  apparition  of  death]  Fly,  fly! 

Terrified,  she  embraces  RAMON.    Her  delirium  seems  to 
communicate  itself  to  him. 

RAMON.  Fly?  Ah!  I  give  my  word.  Nothing  shall  hold 
me  back.  I  swear  it. 

DANIELA.  Then  it  must  be  quickly.  Now!  My  time  is 
growing  short. 

RAMON.  [Distracted]  What?    Now,  Daniela? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  now,  for  unless  we  cheat  death,  he  will  not 
let  us  go,  and  she  will  prevent  you!  [Meaning  ANTONIA] 

RAMON.  She  will  prevent  me!  You  are  right.  [Wildly] 
It  must  be  now. 

DANIELA.  Now! 

RAMON.  Come  on!  Ah! — wait.  [Looking  around]  No!  I 
can't  allow  myself  to  think.  [Running  to  the  door  and  calling] 
Valentine! 

DANIELA.  They'll  stop  us! 

RAMON.  Not  now!    Come  on. 

VALENTINE  enters.    RAMON  leaves  DANIELA,    She  re- 
tires into  her  room. 

VALENTINE.  Did  you  call? 

RAMON.  Fetch  the  tartana — like  lightning.  Quick!  Do 
you  hear? 

VALENTINE.  Yes. 


284  DANIELA 


ACT   III 


RAMON.  And  let  no  one  come  in.  Daniela's  well  again. 
[Exit  VALENTINE]  I'll  send  back  word  from  the  village — 
I  can't  write  now,  not  now!  Daniela!  Where  are  you? 
Daniela! 

DANIELA  re-enters  from  her  room  carrying  a  wrap,  but 
without  having  put  it  on. 

DANIELA.  [Aside]  Here!  This  will  do.  [Aloud]  I  am  ready. 
I  have  everything. 

RAMON.  And  so  have  I — everything.  At  last  we  are  to- 
gether! My  money — ah,  no  money!  [Ransacking  his  pockets 
and  examining  his  papers]  I  can  get  it  at  the  village.  I  can 
get  what  I  need  there.  [DANIELA  meanwhile  tries  to  put  on  the 
wrap]  Let  me  help  you.  [Assisting  her.  Both  are  greatly  ex- 
cited] We  have  to  wait  for  the  tartana. 

DANIELA.  [Impatiently]  Ah,  this  delay! 

RAMON.  [Frenzied]  Don't  think,  I  say!  I  am  ready  now 
for  anything,  and  if  they  try  to  hold  us  back,  I'll  kill  them. 
By  the  Lord,  I'll  kill  them!  [Looking  out]  The  tartana  is 
here.  Quick!  Quick! 

DANIELA.  Yes,  yes;  I  am  coming.  [Gasping]  But — wait! 
Wait  a  moment!  Wait!  [Falling  into  a  chair. 

RAMON.  [Running  up  to  her]  What's  the  matter? 

DANIELA.  Nothing,  it's  nothing.  It's  the  joy  of  taking 
you  with  me! 

RAMON.  [Much  affected]  Yes,  it's  the  joy!    The  joy!  .  .  . 

DANIELA.  The  past  will  fly  behind  us,  like  an  evil  thing. 
And  all  the  world  will  fly,  fly  far  behind,  and  call  out  to  us  as 
we  pass,  abandoned,  wanton,  lost!  I  hate  you! 

RAMON  wrings  his  hands;    his  voice  is  choked  with 
anguish. 

RAMON.  Yes,  the  past  will  remain  behind.  And  all  the 
world  will  remain  behind.  All,  all  will  remain  behind! 

[The  children  are  heard  singing  at  school. 

DANIELA.  Ah!  That  song!  That  wretched  song! . . .  [Stop- 


ACT  in  DANIELA  285 

ping  RAMON'S  ears  with  her  hands]   Don't  hear  it,  Ramon. 
Come  away!    Come  away! 
RAMON.  Courage!    Courage! 

[She  rises,  RAMON  supporting  her. 

DANIELA.  Help  me  with  the  wrap.  Ah!  I  can  do  it — so. 
No,  hejp  me!  [Then,  referring  to  the  children]  They  are  sing- 
ing, still  singing  .  .  .  [She  speaks  very  loudly  so  that  the  chil- 
dren may  not  be  heard]  There,  that's  it — so!  That  way! 

RAMON.  Quick!  [Running  to  look  out  of  the  door]  There's 
no  one  here.  [At  the  door]  Come!  Come! 

[Wiping  his  face  to  hide  a  tear. 
DANIELA.  I'm  coming!    I'm  coming! 

[Unable  to  move  from  where  she  stands. 
RAMON.  Don't  delay!    Quick,  I  say! 

Without  looking  at  her,  so  that  she  may  not  see  how 

much  moved  he  is. 

DANIELA.  Yes,  yes — I'm  coming — now! 
RAMON.  But — what  is  this? 

DANIELA.  [Bursting  into  tears]  Ay,  Ramon,  I  cannot!  [He 
runs  up  to  her]  Help  me!    Help  me! 
RAMON.  Great  God! 

DANIELA.  Carry  me,  Ramon!    Carry  me  in  your  arms! 
RAMON.  I  am  mad! 
DANIELA.  I  am  cold  as  the  grave. 
RAMON.  I  am  mad! 

He  bundles  her  into  her  wrap  as  best  he  may.     It  falls  to 
her  feet.    What  with  dragging  her  behind  him  and  lifting 
her  in  his  arms,  they  reach  the  outer  door  together. 
DANIELA.  I  want  to  live!    I  want  to  live! 
RAMON.  [Like  a  wild  man]  You  are  mine!    Mine!    I  claim 
you  now! 

DANIELA.  Life!    Life!    To  live!    To  live!    I  will  not  die! 
The   children   have   stopped   singing.    Enter 
She  pauses  in  the  doorway. 


286  DANIEL  A  ACT  in 

MONSA.  What's  this?    Where  are  you  going? 

RAMON.  Out  of  my  way! 

MONSA.  Daniela! 

DANIELA.  We  are  going  away. 

MONSA.  Going  away?    Where  are  you  going? 

RAMON.  Stand  back! 

Meanwhile  DANIELA  has  slipped  from  RAMON'S  arms, 

supporting  herself  with  difficulty  against  the  wall. 
MONSA.  [Placing  a  hand  on  each  jamb  of  the  door]  No! 
Where  are  you  going?  .  .  . 
RAMON.  Come,  Daniela! 

DANIELA.  To  be  happy  with  him,  like  the  woman  I  am! 
I  have  not  been  able  to  become  like  you. 
MONSA.  I  am  happy  in  another  way. 
DANIELA.  Out  of  my  sight!    Ram6n,  take  her  out  of  my 
sight! 

RAMON.  [To  MONSA]  Out!    Out! 
MONSA.  Let  go;  I'll  call! 
DANIELA.  Ram6n!    Ram6n! 

RAMON  leaves  MONSA  and  runs  up  to  DANIELA  to  carry 

her  away. 

RAMON.  Come!    Come! 

MONSA.  You   shall   not  go!     [To  DANIELA]     You   shall 
not  go! 

RAMON.  Because  you  are  too  good? 

[He  struggles  with  MONSA,  trying  to  seize  her  by  the  throat. 
MONSA.  No,  no — you'll  strangle  me! 
DANIELA.  Ramon,  no,  no! 

[RAMON  has  thrown  MONSA  to  the  floor. 
MONSA.  Don't  go!    Don't  go! 

[She  catches  RAMON  about  the  knees  so  that  he  cannot  go. 
RAMON.  Come!    Be  quick! 

[DANIELA,  meanwhile,  has  staggered  to  the  door, 
MONSA,  Not  though  you  kill  me! 


ACT  in  DANIELA  287 

RAMON.  [Infuriated]  Fool!    I  see  blood! 

[With  his  hands  at  MONSA'S  throat. 
MONSA.  [Loosening  his  grip]  Anna! 
DANIELA.  [To  MONSA]  No,  for  God's  sake! 
RAMON.  [Falling  back]  Hush,  hush,  I  say! 
MONSA.  [Getting  up]  Anna!    Anna! 

Enter  ANNA. 

ANNA.  What's  the  matter? 
RAMON.  [To  MONSA]  Be  still! 

MONSA.  Your  father's  running  away!     Hold  him,  Anna! 
ANNA.  Father!    Where  are  you  going,  father? 

[Bursting  into  tears. 
MONSA.  [To  DANIELA]  Better  you  had  died! 

DANIELA  lays  her  hands  upon  her  heart,  apparently  suf- 
fering great  pain. 

RAMON.  [To  ANNA,  wildly]  Let  go!    Let  go! 
MONSA.  No,  Anna,  hold  him  tight!     They're  taking  your 
father  away! 

RAMON.  Monsa!  [Seeking  to  quiet  her.] 
ANNA.  Father! 

MONSA.  Hold  him  tight!    Hold  him  tight!    Don't  let  him 
go! 

ANNA.  Father!   Father!    [Throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck. 
RAMON.  My  child!    My  child! 

[Pressing  her  to  his  heart  and  bursting  into  tears. 
MONSA.  [To  DANIELA]  Now  take  him  away — if  you  are 
able. 

DANIELA.  I? — I? — I  must  go  ...  [RAMON  makes  a  move- 
ment toward  her]  Alone!  [She  takes  a  step  toward  the  door  and 
comes  face  to  face  with  ANTONIA]  Antonia!  [DANIELA  pauses. 
ANTONIA.  What   is   this?  [All   are   silent.     To   DANIELA] 
Where  are  you  going?    Alone! 

ANNA,  still  in  her  father's  arms,  hugs  him  convulsively. 
DANIELA.  To  find  a  home  in  the  earth  that  is  warm,  for  I 


288  DANIELA  ACT  in 

am  chilled  to  the  bone.    A  home  in  the  heart  of  the  earth — 
my  mother! 
ANTONIA.  But  what's  the  matter? 

To  the  others,  seeing  tliat  no  one  helps  her.     DANIELA  is 
about  to  fall.    ANTONIA  runs  to  catch  her;   MONSA 
comes  up  at  the  same  time. 
MONSA.  Daniela! 

DANIELA.  Nothing,  it  s  no  matter — it's  no  matter  if  I  fall. 
I  am  dying! 

ANTONIA.  Dying?    God! 

Enter  TOMASETA,  PONA,  ANDREW,  VALENTINE  and 
others  from  the  village,  both  men  and  women,  followed 
also  by  the  children.  They  enter  slowly,  a  few  at  a 
time,  and  stand  about  the  door.  The  children,  as  tfn-ij 
appear, distribute  themselves  among  the  older  people. 
MONSA.  The  Doctor!  Quick! 

DANIELA.  No,    no — no    doctor!    Lord — our — God!    For- 
give! 
MONSA.  Quick!    Quick! 

Several  standing  near  the  door  run  out.     Others,  however, 

enter,  scarcely  daring  to  come  forward. 
DANIELA.  Take  me  out  in  the  road  to  die'. 
ANTONIA.  No!     She  doesn't  know  what  she  is  saying. 
DANIELA.  [Continuing]  Yes,  I  must  go.     Help  me  .  .  . 
MONSA.  What  do  you  want,  Daniela? 
DANIELA.  To  go!  [Aside  to  MONSA]  I  am  the  stain,  the 
stain  upon  this  house. 

MONSA.  Ah, no, no!  [To  the  children]  Come!    Stand  around 

her.  [The  children  approach  DANIELA,  forming  a  half -circle 

about  her]  You  don't  want  her  to  go  away?    You  don't,  do 

you?  [The  children  say  "no,"  very  sadly. 

DANIELA.  [With  her  arms  about  them}  Ah!     I  am  happy — 

now!    I  am  happy  now!  [To  ANTONIA, pleadingly]  And  Anna? 

ANTONIA.  [Calling  her]  Anna!    Anna! 


ACT  in  DANIELA  289 

DANTELA.  Come!  Come!  Anna!  [ANTONIA  places  ANNA 
in  DANIELA'S  arms]  She  has  saved  us  all.  Thanks,  Antonia. 
[To  ANNA]  Poor  Anna!  Looking  at  ANTONIA]  My  girl,  my 
girl!  [Aside  to  ANNA]  Anna!  Your  father,  Anna — take  him 
to  your  mother.  Yes — yes!  Anna!  [ANNA  takes  her  father 
by  the  hand  and  leads  him  to  ANTONIA,  who  is  standing  near] 
Ah!  I  am  happy  now! 

[DANIELA  motions  to  the  children  to  come  nearer. 
ANNA.  [Returning  to  DANIELA]  Aren't  you  going  to  stay? 
Aren't  you  going  to  be  ours? 

DANIELA.  Yes,  yes!     I  am  yours!     Yours! — How  cold  I 
am!  [The   children   press  about  her  more  closely]  Yes,  yes! 
Nearer!    Nearer!    All!    All! 
MONSA.  [Aside]  Poor  Daniela! 

DANIELA.  And  the  sun  will  make  all  bright  again.  [The 
shower  has  passed;    little  by  little  the  sky  has  been  growing 
lighter]  Monsa,  you  can  pull  down  the  tower. 
A  CHILD.  Closer!     Poor  dear,  she's  cold! 
OTHER  CHILDREN.  Aren't  you  going  to  stay? 
DANIELA.  I'll  never  go  away.     I  shall  be  here  always — 
always ! 

A  number  of  children  have  appeared  in  the  street.  They 
join  hands  and  begin  to  sing,  as  at  the  beginning  of  the 
act.  The  workmen  at  the  house  can  be  heard  cutting 
stone. 

MONSA.  They're  at  work  again. 

DANIELA.  [Looking  at  th$tradle]  Show  me  the  boy!  [With 
a  convulsive  effort  she  gets  up}  I'm  going  to  the  boy  .  .  .  I'm 
going  to  the  boy  .  .  . 

She  advances  to  the  cradle,  assisted  by  MONSA  and 
ANTONIA,  and  followed  by  the  children.  The  two 
women  are  scarcely  able  to  support  her.  When  she 
reaches  the  cradle  she  slips  out  of  their  arms,  sinking 
on  her  knees  beside  it. 


290  DANIEL  A  ACT  in 

DANIELA.  [As  she  falls  upon  her  knees]  Little  boy!    Little 
boy! 

MONSA.  [Aside]  The  cradle's  empty!    Oh! 

RAMON.  Don't  touch  her! 

DANIELA.  [Singing,  her  voice  stifled]  "Mother — of — God  ". . . 

MONSA.  [Aside]  She  is  singing. 

DANIELA.  "Of  God— of  God"  .  .  . 

So  saying,  she  lays  her  clieek  on  the  cradle.  It  tilts  to 
one  side  under  her  weight. 

MONSA.  [Looking  up  to  heaven]  Forgive! 

DANIELA.  "God — God"  .  .  . 

She  drops  dead,  lying  on  tlie  floor  at  the  foot  of  the 
cradle.  The  children  fall  back  in  terror,  weeping 
softly. 

MONSA.  Dead! 

ANTONIA.  Ram6n! 

RAMON,  sobbing,  embraces  ANTONIA.  ANNA  hides 
herself  in  the  folds  of  her  mother's  skirt.  MONSA 
kneels  and  imprints  a  kiss  on  the  brow  of  DANIELA. 
The  cradle,  freed  from  her  weight,  is  still  rocking. 
In  the  street  the  children  continue  to  sing.  The  work- 
men go  on  cutting  stone. 

Curtain. 


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